No greater than our life,
Things carefully devised against tears;
And as snails harden their sweat
To brittle safety, a carried shell,
So we might build out of our woe of toil
Serious delight. 
But to see and hear and touch Woman
Breaks our shell of this accursed world,
And turns our measured days to measureless gleam. 
Up in a sudden burning flares
The dark tent of nature pitched about our souls;
And light, like a stound of golden din,
A shadowless light like weather of infinite plains,
Light not narrowed into place,
Amazes the naked nerves of the soul;
And like the pouring of immortal airs
Out of a flowery season,
Over us blows the inordinate desire.—­
  Ah, who from Hell did the wisdom bring
That would make life a formal thing? 
Who has invented all the manner and wont,
The customary ways,
That harness into evil scales
Of malady our living? 
But how they shrivel and craze
If love but glance on them! 
And as a bowl of glass to shattering
Shivers at a sounding string,
The brittle glittering self of man
At beauty of Woman throbs apieces,
And seems into Eternity spilled
The being it contained. 
Let it touch Woman and flesh becomes
Finer and more thrilled
Than air contrived in tune,
Lighter round the soul
Than flame is round burning. 
She is God’s bribery to man
That he the world endure,
His wage for carrying the weight of being. 
Nay, she is rather the eternal lure
Out of form and things that end,
Out of all the starry snares,
Out of the trap of years,
Into measureless desire;
Lest man be satisfied with mind,—­
Be never stung into self-hate
At crouching always in the crate
Of prudent knowledge round him wrought,
And so grow small as his own thought. 
  Kings, think of the woman’s body you love best
How the beloved lines twin and merge,
Go into rhyme and differ, swerve and kiss,
Relent to hollows or like yearning pout,—­
Curves that come to wondrous doubt
Or smooth into simplicities;
Like a skill of married tunes
Curdled out of the air;
How it is all sung delivering magic
To your pent hamper’d souls! 
I tell you, kings, yours are but stammer’d songs
To that enchantment fashion’d for him,
That ceremony of life’s powers,
The loveliness of Vashti;
That unbelievable worship made
For King Ahasuerus. 
He to whom the loveliest she is given,
Least is bound to ended things,
Belongeth most on earth to Heaven;
Hath the whitest wind of flame
To burn his soul clean of the world,
Clean of mortal imaginings,
And back to the Beauty whence he came. 
Now you hear the glory of the king of kings,
That he knows Vashti, that he lives
In this pleasure always. 
Ah, could you see her!  But perhaps she is
Too fearful in her beauty for most men. 
I think she would dismay you, and unhitch