52
THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
He carves it with a curious skill,
And when his task was done,
The little flame was burning still
That from its bright beak shone.
He pledged the purple cup that night,
His soul drank brighter wine
Than ever filled a cup with light
Or made the hour divine;
As if its passing shade had caught
All treasures that a life had sought.
Ah, no—a deeper joy he drank
Than ever floated on the bowl,
A joy, that coloured while it sank
In sweet enchantment on the soul.
The rosy thraldom of the vine
Would vanish with the morning's shine;
