Demi-monde

In a deep dusk between the known

Day and the night which broods alone,

There moves—with primrose-sparkles thrown

Across—the shady-pathed beyond

Of a superhuman demi-monde.

That wayward mystery we outcast,

Deeming its free heart-flame too fast,

Too wandering and too multiform:

We love the mind's clear-bodied norm

And not this wile of distant hue

Across a shimmer of nectar-dew—

Strange lure of the unnamable,

Soliciting our lips to cease

Their oaths of rigid loyalties

And mutely summoning us to break

Out of the marriage of thought and speech

Towards the thought no word can reach,

No cry of intellect overtake,

But only the heart's wide discontent

Catches in a sudden throb and thrill!

The demi-monde of the half-divine

Is a wondrous weakness of the will,

Striving for a vague firmament,

Letting the tangible earth far-fall.

It offers but a fickle shine

Of raptures never thine or mine,

Dim ecstasies that are conjoint,

Each moment a new magic mood

Of piercing brief beatitude, I

nfinity's touch by paradise-point,

Giving its miracle to all

Who pay the passionate pangful price

Of near things precious in our eyes—

Self-pride, wealth-hoard, home-life, world-fame.

But, save through the soul's demi-monde

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Where time is stripped of every shame

Of being drunk with the unseen voice

Of some eternal liberty,

There never can be a true bond

Between earth's shallow wakeful joys

And high Perfection's stellar poise

Of measureless secrecy above.

The extremes are drawn close only by

This Venus-lit horizonry,

This dream-dusk of unfettered love!

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