THE COURT OF THE PROFANE. 
21 
The blossom of a painted mouth 
And bare breasts tinctured with the South. 
 
For lo !  the harlot Jezebel, 
 Her hands dropped perfume, and her tongue 
(A flame from the dark heart of hell, 
 The ivory-barred mouth, that stung 
With unimaginable pangs) 
Shot out at me, and Hell fixed fangs. 
 
Her purple robes, her royal crown, 
 The jewelled girdle of her waist, 
Her feet with murder splashed, and brown 
 With the sharp lips that fawn and taste, 
The crimson snakes that minister 
To those unwearying lust of her. 
 
And all her woman’s scent did drift 
 A steam of poison through the air ; 
The haze of sunshine seems to lift 
 And toil in tangles of black hair, 
The hair that waves, and winds, and bites, 
And glistens with unholy lights. 
 
For lo !  she saw me, and beheld 
 My trembling lips curled back to curse ; 
Laughed with strong scorn, whose music knelled 
 The empire of God’s universe. 
And on my haggard face upturned 
She spat !  Ah God !  how my cheek burned !