Michael Robartes and the Dancer/Demon and Beast
DEMON AND BEASTFor certain minutes at the leastThat crafty demon and that loud beastThat plague me day and nightRan out of my sight;Though I had long pernned in the gyre,Between my hatred and desire,I saw my freedom wonAnd all laugh in the sun.
The glittering eyes in a death’s headOf old Luke Wadding’s portrait saidWelcome, and the Ormonds allNodded upon the wall,And even Stafford smiled as thoughIt made him happier to knowI understood his plan;Now that the loud beast ranThere was no portrait in the GalleryBut beckoned to sweet company,For all men’s thoughts grew clearBeing dear as mine are dear.
But soon a tear-drop started upFor aimless joy had made me stopBeside the little lakeTo watch a white gull takeA bit of bread thrown up into the air;Now gyring down and pernning thereHe splashed where an absurdPortly green-pated birdShook off the water from his back;Being no more demoniacA stupid happy creatureCould rouse my whole nature.
Yet I am certain as can beThat every natural victoryBelongs to beast or demon,That never yet had freemanRight mastery of natural things,And that mere growing old, that bringsChilled blood, this sweetness brought;Yet have no dearer thoughtThan that I may find out a wayTo make it linger half a day.
O what a sweetness strayedThrough barren Thebaid,Or by the Mareotic sea When that exultant AnthonyAnd twice a thousand moreStarved upon the shoreAnd withered to a bag of bones:What had the Caesars but their thrones?