PROTHALAMION

Light - low far-clouded light, pale-flooding tide
of clarity and space - rise higher; break
the sea-wall of his rest; let him awake
		and smile, as at the bride
whom you will bear to him.  And for her sake
pour out your tenderness and all your power
and make them his.  Be risen, virgin sky
of his last solitude, and lift on high
his wonder and his love, that from this hour
		another world may flower.

World - you that have been, you that will be, hers - 
do not arouse her yet; this is the grey
and indigo of morning, not of day.
		No chorus, no cloud, stirs.
You then that sweep the dying world away,
forbid awhile the saffron streamers and
fierce hymeneal torches of your eat:
she will have time for all when you have ceased.
Both worlds be gentle, and now most: command
		Your spinning hours to stand.

Sun, they will not.  But sun that on my panes
coldly by callous glistening disobeyed,
leave her asleep awhile where she is laid
		among your subtle chains:
all you see there is soon to be unmade.
Still in the calm and secret of her room,
as in a garden, wake the folded scents:
apple and flower and grass; the sweet warm tents
of her young bed; the petalled flesh in bloom
		which is its own perfume.

Day, make her window glad; and when your blue 
is a tall purity of splendour, lift
her unreluctant eyelids to that gift,
		and let her come to you.
Let her uprising and her blood be swift;
and when she greets you, wings your melting air
with strength to carry - oh invisible dove - 
myrtle and rose between her and her love.
But let the voices of all those who bear
		love towards her, whisper there.

Air, dulcet air who were their messenger,
now let their separate innocence unite
because you kiss them both.  Or shape the bright
		leagues that encircle her,
and shut him from her, to a weir of light - 
a lens between them, by whose glittering bands
they are drawn close.  Or make the burning-glass
from their own bodies, that the fire may pass
more keenly the wide focus of their hands
		than where her mirror stands.

Glass, happy glass, that to your lucid hear
may hold so much unhindered loveliness,
let all your coloured beams reach out and bless
		her body set apart,
which you may learn then all but one must guess.
This let her watch a little, while there stray - 
remembering and prophetic, though her own - 
hands on the moth's-wing of her flesh: long known, 
but dedicate to strangeness by today,
		it has goodbyes to say.

Birds in your towers of sapphire, and that swim
gold-haunted reaches of the wind, and sing
down diamonds upon us: let the ring
		that seals her now to him
be emblem of your jewelled ways, and bring
no thought less tender than our speech and yours.
But leave the purer circles that shall bind
the pair, by flesh and by the unchanging mind,
for songs of that flame-lilied host which soars
		above your sunlit shores.

Hours, last ambiguous hours, too many though
too swift; way-builders whose high task it is
to arch above them sounds and images
		by whose prismatic bow
her gentleness may join at last with his:
let every pace along your wheeling height
peal in their hearts and fill the world with bells.
All the exalted ceremony foretells
be in your passing, till through grave delight
		you lead them towards the night.

Heralds of night - you, green and amethyst,
and breathing coolness of the fallen sun;
windflower spectre of the moon - have done,
		and let them keep their tryst:
let the dark hair of evening be spun
into a curtain for their quietude.
And you, sweet emblematic star, alone
lift up your fire to make their meeting known;
and you alone, calm planet, bright renewed,
		have license to intrude.

Moon, let them breathe you for angelic air,
and grow transfigured in your power, possessed
as by a sacrament they had not guessed.
		Darken her eyes and hair,
darken the roses upon mouth and breast,
but wake her skin with silver: and for him,
bathe his unfolded strength and ardency
in the live ichor of your floods, that he
may wield a body built in every limb
		as if of seraphim. 

Love, lifted flail of bodies, fire of wind
that roars through flesh grown sensitive as eyes;
oh headlong music of the blood that cries,
		but trembles, to be twinned:
burn, winnow, swell, this hard-strung night.  And rise,
you throne of Charity, the steady pole
of all the wheels of stars, rise now above
these two and the first rituals of their love;
loose in their flesh that singing flame the soul,
		to make this moment whole.

Moment, irrevocable moment, bring
nothing that gladness may not quench: no fear
but his,  for pity, no endurance dear
		beyond the welcoming.
But let the glories of the Grail and Spear
shine through their flesh as through cathedral panes,
and every touch he jewels, every act
be angels, every joy or hurt contract
to the one double flower in whose veins
		run paradisal rains.

Stars, in the cloister of your mineral fire
forever virgin, guard them both, and keep
the amazement of the morning from their sleep:
		all wonder and desire
at last are yours awhile.  And envy.  Weep,
then, for yourselves; but scatter on these two - 
my friend and sister, and her love - no less
than tears of amber wept for happiness.
Or be her bridal crown, made nightly new
		in your own healing dew.

Time, work no evil on their peace: adore,
still-vailing your implacable eyes, this trance
in the white halls of worship; make your dance,
		too swift for motion or
the fury of music, one sweet circumstance.
But let the dance endure: they could not bear
eternity in all its nakedness:
be then yourself its fluid saffron dress;
shiver its light with torches; let it wear
		your armour everywhere.

Light, fair Light infinitely springing, grace
all hours and seasons of these lovers, grown
by passionate mercy deeper than their own
		each other's dwelling-place:
within them shine, and on this bed, the throne
and altar of their flesh; there flower and run,
rich Fountain, always; brightness, petal-fold
of spreading glory, break of pulsing gold,
adorn them: till, slow-lifted endless one,
		you rise, oh Unseen Sun.