Collected Works (Vol. II)

14 ORACLES My whole self seems to lie in her ; her kisses draw my breath; my face Loses its lustre in the grace of her quick bosom ; sinister “The raving spectres reel; I see beyond my Circe’s eyes no shape Save vague cloud-measures that escape the dance’s whirling witchery. Their song is in my ears, that burn with their melodious wickedness ; But in her heart my sorceress has songs more sinful, that I learn As she sings slowly all their shame, and makes me tingle with delight At new debaucheries, whose might rekindles blood and bone to flame. The circle gathers. Negresses howl in the naked dance, and wheel On poniard-blades of poisoned steel, and weep out blood in agonies ; Strange beast and reptile writhe; the song grows high and melancholy now ; The perfume savours every brow with lust unutterable of wrong. Clothed with my flower-bride I sit, a harlot in a harlot’s dress, And laugh with careless wickedness that strews the broad road of the Pit With vine and myrtle and thy flower, my harlot-maiden, who for man Now first forsakest thy leman, thy Eve, my Lilith, in this bower Which we indwell, a deathless three, change- less and changing, as the pyre Of earthly love becomes a fire to heat us through eternity. I have forgotten Christ at last ; he may look back, grown amorous, And call across the gulf to us, and signal kisses through the vast : We shall disdain, clasp faster yet, and mock his newer pangs, and call With stars and voices musical, jeers his touched heart shall not forget. I would have pitied him. This flower spits blood upon him ; so must I Cast ashes through the misty sky to mock his faded crown of power, And with our laughter’s nails refix his torn flesh faster to the wood, And with more cruel zest make good the shackles of the Crucifix. So be it! In thy arms I rest, lulled into silence by the strain Of sweet love-whispers, while I drain damna- tion from thy tawny breast: Nor heed the haggard sun’s eclipse, feeling thy perfume fill my hair, And all thy dark caresses wear sin’s raiment on thy melting lips— Nay, by the witchcraft of thy charms to sleep, nor dream that God survive ; To wake, this only to contrive-—fresh passions in thy naked arms ; And, at that moment when thy breath mixes with mine, like wine, to call Each memory, one merged into all, to kiss, to sleep, to mate with death ! THE NATIVITY. CHRISTMAS 1897. THE Virgin lies at Bethlehem. (Bring gold and frankincense and myrrh !) The root of David shoots a stem. (O Holy Spirit, pity her !) She lies alone amid the kine. (Bring gold and frankincense and myrrh !) The straw is fragrant as with wine. (O Holy Spirit, pity her !)