Clouds Without Water

Lord ! on love’s altar lies the sacrament. O willing victim, eager to be slain, Lusting to feel the knife, the life-veil rent, Assumption energized by death ! O fain To feel the murderous ardour of the priest Clutch at his throat, theurgic frenzy fly About the initiates of the Paschal feast And know it centred in the dim dead I Loosed by the pang — even thus you know it is, Even thus, when I invoke your harsh caress, Put up my mouth to your immortal kiss, Confess you for my lady and murderess — In mine own life-blood I exult to float Even as your white fangs fasten in my throat.