He could not synchronize old shadowed pain,
(Which moves detached along an under cave)
With the present pulse, which sweeps in junketings
To climaxes previsioning a grave.
But trefoils spring where fair Iseult
Once passed through love to martyrdom.
The flash of muscled arms in Babylon,
The porting ships of kings at Avalon,
Receding mountains of Icelandic gloom,
And dangered paths of queens in Ascalon,
Penumbral, tint the whitest flower
That tangles with the instant hour.
-Walter Clyde Curry
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