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This is our truth, that only Nothing is,
That is his truth that seems to sink supine a ; )
And Nothing is an universe of Bliss ;
Into your bosom’s bliss, the scented snare, :
That loves denote supernal ecstasies,
Killed by your kisses shuddering in his spine
And blinded in the bowers of your hair ! And saintship lurks in the colossal kiss.
And blinded in the bower
ook. . Loves are the letters of the holy word
This is his truth, who seems to writhe and sob . .
That contradicts the curse ’ Let Being be!”
Beneath the earthquake pangs of your caress,
. . Since all things, even one thing, are absurd ;
Whose heart burns out in one volcanic throb,
— And no thing is the utmost ecstasy.
Whose life is eaten up of nothingness.
This is his truth, and yours, that seem to be
Mere beauteous bodies gripped in epicene
And sterile passion, all unchastity
Kisses induct the soft and solemn tune
That Israfel shail blow on Doomisday—
Your silky eyes are blue as that pale moon
(For ere it dies it sickens into grey)
In being chaste, all chaste in our obscene
That witches see, whose eager violence
And sexless mouthings, that repugnant roll
oe Aborts the gods of cosmic permanence.
Their bestial billows on the snow-pure soul.
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