The Long Room

HE found the long room as it was of old, Glimmering with sunset's gold; That made the tapestries seem full of eyes Strange with a wild surmise: Glaring upon a Psyche where she shone Carven of stainless stone, Holding a crystal heart where many a sun Seemed starrily bound in one: And near her, grim in rigid metal, stood An old knight in a wood, Groping his way: the bony wreck, that was His steed, at weary pause. And over these a canvas — one mad mesh Of Chrysoprase tints of flesh And breasts — Bohemian cups, whose glory gleamed For one who, brutish, seemed A hideous Troll, unto whose lustful arms She yielded glad her charms. Then he remembered all her shame; and knew The thing that he must do: These were but records of his life: the whole Portrayed to him his soul.— So, drawing forth the slim Bithynian phial, He drained it with a smile. And 'twixt the Knight and Psyche fell and died; The arras, evil-eyed, Glared grimly at him where all night he lay, And where a stealthy ray Pointed her to him — her, that nymph above, Who gave the Troll her love.