What hast thou done that such an hour should be More than another clothed with blood to thee? Thou hast seen many a bloodred hour before this one. What art thou that thy lovers should misdoubt?
What is this hour that it should cast hope out? If hope turn back and fall from thee, what hast thou done? Thou hast done ill against thine own soul; yea, Thine own soul hast thou slain and burnt away,
Dissolving it with poison into foul thin fume. Thine own life and creation of thy fate Thou hast set thine hand to unmake and discreate; And now thy slain soul rises between dread and doom.
Yea, this is she that comes between them led; That veiled head is thine own soul's buried head, The head that was as morning's in the whole world's sight. These wounds are deadly on thee, but deadlier
Those wounds the ravenous poison left on her; How shall her weak hands hold thy weak hands up to fight? Ah, but her fiery eyes, her eyes are these That, gazing, make thee shiver to the knees
And the blood leap within thee, and the strong joy rise. What, doth her sight yet make thine heart to dance? O France, O freedom, O the soul of France, Are ye then quickened, gazing in each other's eyes?
Ah, and her words, the words wherewith she sought thee Sorrowing, and bare in hand the robe she wrought thee To wear when soul and body were again made one, And fairest among women, and a bride,
Sweet-voiced to sing the bridegroom to her side, The spirit of man, the bridegroom brighter than the sun!
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