XIII

No more, no more of church or feast, for these Are outward to the day, like the green trees That flank the road to church and the same road Back from the church, under a higher sun trod. These have no more part than a floor or wall In the great day's true ceremonial. The guests themselves, no less than they that wed, Hold these as nought but corridors to bed. So are all things, that between this and dark Will be passed, a dim work Of minutes, hours seen in a sleep, and dreamed Untimed and wrongly deemed. The bridal and the walk back and the feast Are all for each a mist Where he sees others through a blurred hot notion Of drunk and veined emotion, And a red race runs through his seeing and hearing, A great carouse of dreams seen each on each, Till their importunate careering A stopped, half-hurting point of mad joy reach.