Page:The Vow of the Peacock.pdf/61

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He carves it with a curious skill, And when his task was done, The little flame was burning still That from its bright beak shone. He pledged the purple cup that night, His soul drank brighter wine Than ever filled a cup with light Or made the hour divine; As if its passing shade had caught All treasures that a life had sought. Ah, no—a deeper joy he drank Than ever floated on the bowl, A joy, that coloured while it sank In sweet enchantment on the soul. The rosy thraldom of the vine Would vanish with the morning's shine;