DÆDALUS. 
 
THE scorpion kisses and the stings of sin 
Cling hard within 
The heart whose fibres, like a slender vine, 
Earth’s hopes entwine, 
And all the furies of the air caress 
The sorceress 
Whose bosom beats in unison with shame, 
A flower of flame 
Whose root most secretly made fast in hell 
Is watered by the seraphim that fell. 
 
The heart wherein is lit the sacred fire 
Of high desire, 
Burnt clean from all untruth and sacrilege, 
Her wings may fledge, 
And fly a little in the broad sweet air, 
Till unaware 
 
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