The Savoy . «w* cuk~„ U^C^Cj OSULLIVAN RUA TO MARYLAVELL. HEN my arms wrap you round, I pressMy heart upon the lovelinessThat has long faded in the world ;The jewelled crowns that kings have hurledIn shadowy pools, when armies fled ;The love-tales wrought with silken thread By dreaming ladies upon cloth That has made fat the murderous moth ; The roses that of old time were Woven by ladies in their hair, Before they drowned their lovers eyes In twilight shaken with low sighs ; The dew-cold lilies ladies bore Through many a sacred corridor Where a so sleepy incense rose That only Gods eyes did n

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The Savoy . «w* cuk~„ U^C^Cj OSULLIVAN RUA TO MARYLAVELL. HEN my arms wrap you round, I pressMy heart upon the lovelinessThat has long faded in the world ;The jewelled crowns that kings have hurledIn shadowy pools, when armies fled ;The love-tales wrought with silken thread By dreaming ladies upon cloth That has made fat the murderous moth ; The roses that of old time were Woven by ladies in their hair, Before they drowned their lovers eyes In twilight shaken with low sighs ; The dew-cold lilies ladies bore Through many a sacred corridor Where a so sleepy incense rose That only Gods eyes did not close : For that dim brow and lingering hand Come from a more dream-heavy land, A more dream-heavy hour than this ; And, when you sigh from kiss to kiss, I hear pale Beauty sighing too, For hours when all must fade like dew Till there be naught but throne on throne Of seraphs, brooding, each alone, A sword upon his iron knees, On her most lonely mysteries. YV. B. Yeats.

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Keywords: ., boo, bookcentury1800, booksubjectart, booksubjectliteraturemodern