Page:The Poems of Oscar Wilde.pdf/159

 And draw the feathered notch against her breast,

And loose the archèd cord, ay, even now upon the quest

I hear her hurrying feet,—awake, awake,

Thou laggard in love's battle! once at least

Let me drink deep of passion's wine, and slake

My parchèd being with the nectarous feast

Which even Gods affect! O come, Love, come,

Still we have time to reach the cavern of thine azure home.'

Scarce had she spoken when the shuddering trees

Shook, and the leaves divided, and the air

Grew conscious of a God, and the grey seas

Crawled backward, and a long and dismal blare

Blew from some tasselled horn, a sleuth-hound bayed,

And like a flame a barbèd reed flew whizzing down the glade.

And where the little flowers of her breast

Just brake into their milky blossoming,

This murderous paramour, this unbidden guest,

Pierced and struck deep in horrid chambering,

And ploughed a bloody furrow with its dart,

And dug a long red road, and cleft with wingèd death her heart. 145