Oracles

SONNET FOR A PICTURE Written in the woods above Kandy. Inscribed to T. Davidson. LURED by the loud big-breasted courtezan That plies trained lechery of obedient eyes, He sits, holds bed’s last slattern-sweet surprise, Late plucked from gutter to grace groves of Pan. The third one, ruddy as they twain are wan, Hungrily gazes, sees her tower of lies Blasted that instant in some wizard wise— The frozen look—the miserable man ! What sudden barb of what detested dart Springs from Apollo’s bowstring to his heart ? On sense-dulled ears what Voice rings the decree ? “ For thee the women burn : the wine is cool : For thee the fresco and the fruit—thou fool ! This night thy soul shall be required of thee ! ” III