The Soul of Osiris

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