The Soul of Osiris

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 !