Mine
IN that tranced hush when sound sank awed to rest,
Ere from her spirit’s rose-red, rose-sweet gate
Came forth to me her royal word of fate,
Did she sigh “Yes,” and droop upon my breast,
While round our rapture, dumb, fixed, unexpressed
By the seized senses, there did fluctuate
The plaintive surges of our mortal state,
Tempering the poignant ecstasy too blest.
Do I wake into a dream, or have we twain,
Lured by soft wiles to some unconscious crime,
Dared joys forbid to man? Oh, Light supreme,
Upon our brows transfiguring glory rain,
Nor let the sword of thy just angel gleam
On two who entered heaven before their time!
Westland Marston.