For “The Wine of Circle” by Edward Burne Jones
DUSK—HAIRED and gold—robed o’er the golden wine
She stoops, wherein, distilled of death and shame,
Sink the black drops; while, lit with fragrant flame,
Round her spread board the golden sunflowers shine.
Doth Helios here with Hecaté combine
(O Circe, thou their votaress!) to proclaim
For these thy guests all rapture in Love’s name,
Till pitiless Night give Day the countersign?
Lords of their hour, they come. And by her knee
Those cowering beasts, their equals heretofore,
Wait; who with them in new equality
To—night shall echo back the sea’s dull roar
With a vain wail from passion’s tide—strown shore
Where the dishevelled seaweed hates the sea.
