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.