But when the king did sacrifice, and gave Each god fair dues of wheat and blood and wine, Her not with bloodshed nor burnt-offering Revered he, nor with salt or cloven cake; Wherefore being wroth she plagued the land, but now Takes off from us fate and her heavy things. Which deed of these twain were not good to praise? For a just deed looks always either way With blameless eyes, and mercy is no fault.
Yea, but a curse she hath sent above all these To hurt us where she healed us; and hath lit Fire where the old fire went out, and where the wind Slackened, hath blown on us with deadlier air.
What storm is this that tightens all our sail?
Love, a thwart sea-wind full of rain and foam.
Whence blown, and born under what stormier star?
Thy speech turns toward Arcadia like blown wind.
Sharp as the north sets when the snows are out.
Nay, for this maiden hath no touch of love.
I would she had sought in some cold gulf of sea Love, or in dens where strange beasts lurk, or fire, Or snows on the extreme hills, or iron land Where no spring is; I would she had sought therein And found, or ever love had found her here.
She is holier than all holy days or things, The sprinkled water or fume of perfect fire; Chaste, dedicated to pure prayers, and filled With higher thoughts than heaven; a maiden clean, Pure iron, fashioned for a sword, and man She loves not; what should one such do with love?