The Soul of Osiris

THE COURT OF THE PROFANE. 27 The vulture hangs, a ghost unclean ; The lewd hyæna’s sleepless eye Darts through the distance ; these admit My lordship over her—and it. The host is lifted up. Behold The vintage spilt, the broken bread ! I feast upon the cruel cold Pale body that was ripe and red. Only, her head, her palms, her feet, I kissed all night, and did not eat. So, and not otherwise, the word Of God was utterly fulfilled. So, and not otherwise. I heard Her spirit cry, by death not stilled : “ My sin is perfect in thy blood, And thou and I have conquered God.” Now let me die, at last desired, At last beloved of thee my queen ; Now let me die, with blood attired, Thy servant naked and obscene ; To thy white skull, thy palms, thy feet, Clinging, dead, infamous, complete. Now let me die, to mix my soul With thy red soul, to join our hands, To weld us in one perfect whole, To link us with desirous bands. Now let me die, to mate in hell With thee, O harlot Jezebel.