116 
THE SOUL OF OSIRIS. 
Where icy fingers grip the overbold 
 Son of their secrets, and like springes close 
On his choked throat and frozen body—Nay ! 
That death were twilight, and the gate of Day ! 
 
No death ye bring as his, that grips the flag 
 In desperate fingers, and with bloody sword 
Flames up the thundering breach, while bastioned crag, 
 Glacis, and pent-house belch their monstrous horde 
Of hideous engines shattering—this strife 
Clears the straight road of Glory and of Life ! 
 
Nay :  but the hateful death that stings the soul 
 Into rebellion ;  the insensate death 
That chokes its own delight with words that roll 
 Mightier-mouthed than the archangel’s breath ; 
The death that murders courage ere it drink 
The soul’s own life-blood on the desperate brink ! 
 
So, from the languid fingers in my curls 
 And dreamy worship of a woman’s eyes, 
I look beyond the miserable whirls 
 Of foolish measures woven in the skies ; 
Beyond the thoughtless stars :  beyond God’s sleep : 
Beyond the deep :  beneath the deadly deep ! 
 
Infinite rings of luminous ether move 
 At first amid the blackness that I seek : 
Infinite motion and amazing love 
 Deaden the lustre of the night.  I speak