XIII

No more, no more of church or feast, for these

Are outward to the daym, 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.