The Laboratory - Ancien Régime

I

Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly,

May gaze thro' these faint smokes curling whitely,

As thou pliest thy trade in this devil's-smithy—-

Which is the poison to poison her, prithee?

II

He is with her, and they know that I know

Where they are, what they do: they believe my tears flow

While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear

Empty church, to pray God in, for them!—-I am here.

III

Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste,

Pound at thy powder,—-I am not in haste!

Better sit thus, and observe thy strange things,

Than go where men wait me and dance at the King's.

IV

That in the mortar—-you call it a gum?

Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come!

And yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue,

Sure to taste sweetly,—-is that poison too?