62 
ODE TO VENUS CALLIPYGE 
 
Yea, we must praise, though the deadly shade 
Fall on the morrow though fires of hell 
Harrow our vitals ;  a miracle 
Springs at thy kisses, for thou hast made 
Anguish and sorrow desirable 
Torment of hell as the leaves that fade 
Quickly forgotten, despised, decayed. 
 
They are decayed, but thou springest again, 
Mother of mystery, barren, who bearest 
Flowers of most comeliest children, who wearest 
Wounds for delight, whose desire shall stain 
Star-space with blood as the price thou sharest 
With thy red lovers, whose passing pain 
Ripens to marvellous after-gain. 
 
Thou art the fair, the wise, the divine, 
Thou art our mother, our goddess, our life, 
Thou art our passion, our sorrow, our strife, 
Thou, on whose forehead no lights ever shine, 
Thou, our Redeemer, our mistress, our wife, 
Thou, barren sister of deathlier brine, 
Venus Callipyge, mother of mine !