THE TEMPLE OF SOLOMON THE KING
My soul with this arcane delight,
Voluptuous Daughter of the Night|
Eat me up wholly with the glance
Of thy luxurious brilliance !
oLympas. The desert calls.
MARSYAS. Then let us go!
Or seek the sacramental snow,
Where like an high-priest I may stand
With acolytes on every hand,
The lesser peaks—my will withdrawn
To invoke the dayspring from the dawn,
Changing that rosy smoke of light
To a pure crystalline white ;
Though the mist of mind, as draws
A dancer round her limbs the gauze,
Clothe Light, and show the virgin Sun
A lemon-pale medallion!
Thence leap we leashless to the goal,
Stainless star-rapture of the soul.
So the altar-fires fade
As the Godhead is displayed.
Nay, we stir not. Everywhere
Is our temple right appointed.
All the earth is faery fair
For us. Am I not anointed?
The Sigil burns upon the brow
At the adjuration—here and now.
otympas. The air is laden with perfumes.
marsyas. Behold! it beams—it burns—it blooms.
oLympas. Master, how subtly hast thou drawn