Rachel Annand Taylor (1876–1960)

WE crazed for you, aspired and fell for you;

Over us trod Desire, with feet of fire.

Ah! the sad stories we would tell for you,

Full of dark nights and sighing

While—you were dying,

Chrysola!

Roundels and all rich rimes we rang for you;

How from the plangent lyre pled our Desire!

But the musicians vainly sang for you;—

Through the dear music, crying

That—you were dying,

Chrysola!

High on the golden throne love wrought for you

With eyes enthrall’d of rest, tired of our best;

You sat unheeding while we fought for you

Glaive unto glaive replying;

For—you were dying,

Chrysola!

Frenzied from out the jousts we came to you;

‘Can we love more, Dream-fast? Crown, then, at last.’

But love and hate were one dim flame to you;

Strange things you smiled us—dying,

O! You were dying,

Chrysola!

Great spoils of frankincense we burn’d for you,

Round your death-chamber proud—then cursed aloud

Christian or Pagan god that yearn’d for you,

Till you were undenying.—

O Dream undying,

Chrysola!