XII
There gods descend; there devils rise. We dance,
Dance to the madness of the waning moon,
Write centuries of murder in a glance,
Chiliads of rape in one unearthly tune.
There is the sacrament of sin unveiled
And there the abortion of Demeter eaten,
The potion of black Dione distilled,
The measure of Pan by whirling women beaten.
These are but symbols, and our souls the truth;
These sacraments, and we the gods of them ;
The sabbath incense curls to us to soothe
Our spleen, engarlands us, a diadem
For that unutterable deed that hurled
Us, flaming thunderbolts! against the world.
— In
ASIII
There needs not ask the obscure oracle
Whereto these dire imaginations tend.
We read this sigil in the dust of Hell:
” The Gods have given for this no happy end.
What end should we desire, who grasp the gain
We have despoiled from everlasting time,
Who gather sunshine from the iciest rain
And turn the dullest prose to rhythm and rime?
Think you we cannot warm our hands and laugh
Fven at the fire that scatheth adamant?
Think you we shall not knead the utmost chaff
Into a bread worth Heaven's high sacrament
And from the bitter dregs of Hell’s own wine
Distil a liquor utterly divine?