The Equinox (Volume I, Number VI)

44 THE EQUINOX Things beyond history and art In the tresses that tumble over her earl In what grim gloom did Satan get This child on what wood—nymph dishevelled? Whence was the wind that swayed the woods On their bestial beatitudes? Or what garden of rose and violet Lay under the moon wherein they revelled? She is like a poppy-petal. All the seas of sleep are hidden Under the languorous eyelids, whose Lashes are long and strong to bruise My heart where her lusts like hornets settle On sacred leaves, on flowers forbidden. She is like a drug of wonder. All the limits of sense dissolve When we {all like snows from the precipice Sun—kissed to the black ravines of ice. I am drowned in the universal thunder; The hours disrupt, the aeons involve. Ah I not in any mortal mood Ends the great verb we conjugate From the highest hyberbole she doth swerve In an incommensurable curve, And the line of our beatitude Is one with the sigil of our Fate.