THE HOLY OF HOLIES. 
115 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE ATHANOR. 
 
 
IBERTINE touches of small fingers creep 
 Among my curls to-night :  pale ghastly kisses, 
Like mournful ghosts roused from their ruined sleep 
 By clamorous cries of murder.  Strange abysses 
Loom in the vista keen eyes penetrate, 
Vague forecasts of immeasurable fate. 
 
O thou belovéd blood, that wells and weeps ! 
 O thou belovéd mouth, that beats and bleeds ! 
O mystic bosom where some serpent sleeps, 
 Sweet mockery of a thousand saintlier creeds ! 
Even I, that breathe your perfume, taste your breath, 
Know, even this hour, ye are not life, but death ! 
 
No death ye bring more godlike than desire, 
 When seas roar tempest-lashed, and foam is flung 
Raging on pitiless crags, and gloomy fire 
 Lurks in the master-cloud ;  corpses are swung 
Helpless and horrible in trough and crest— 
That death were music, and the lord of rest. 
 
No death ye bring as when the storm is rolled, 
 An imminent giant on the sun-ripped snows, 
  L