The Soul of Osiris

THE COURT OF THE PROFANE. 35 Ah turn, my bosom for thy love is cold ; My arms are empty, and my lips can hold No converse with thee far away like this. O for that communing pregnant with a kiss That is reborn when lips are set together To link our souls in one desirous tether, And weld our very bodies into one. Ah fiend Jehovah, what then have we done To earn thy curse ? Is love like ours too strong To dwell before thee, and do thy throne no wrong ? Art thou grown jealous of the fiery band ? Lo ! thou hast spoken, and thy strong command Bade earth and air divide, and on the sea Thy spirit moved—and thou must envy me ! Gird all thy godhead to destroy a man Whose little moment is a single span, Whose small desire is nothing—and thy power Must root from out his bosom the fair flower Of passion ! Listen to thine own voice yet : “ A rich man many flocks and herds did get, “ And took the poor man’s lamb.” Thou art the man ! Our love must lie beneath thy bitter ban ! Thou petty, envious God ! My king, be sure His brute force shall not to the end endure ; Some stronger soul than thine shall wrest his crown And thrust him from his own high heaven down To some obscure forgetful hell. For me Forsake thy hopes in him. We worship, we, Rather the dear delights we know and hold ; The first cool kiss, within the water cold