Maurice Baring (1874–1945)

SHE listen’d to the music of the spheres;

We thought she did not hear our happy strings;

Stars diadem’d her hair in misty rings,

And all too late we knew those stars were tears.

Without she was a temple of pure snow,

Within were piteous flames of sacrifice;

And underneath the dazzling mask of ice

A heart of swiftest fire was dying slow.

She in herself, as lonely lilies fold

Stiff silver petals over secret gold,

Shielded her passion and remain’d afar

From pity. Cast red roses on the pyre!

She that was snow shall rise to Heaven as fire

In the still glory of the morning star.