38 
THE SOUL OF OSIRIS. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
SONNET FOR GERALD KELLY’S 
JEZEBEL. 
 
 
IFT up thine head, disastrous Jezebel ! 
 Fire and black stars are melted in thine hair 
That curls to Hell, as in Satanic prayer ; 
Thy mouth is heavy with its riper smell 
Than clustered pomegranates beside a well ; 
 The cruel savour of thy lust lies there, 
 That blood may tinge thy kisses unaware 
To fill thy children with the hope of Hell. 
 
O evil beauty !  Heart of mystery 
 Wherein my being toils, and in the blood 
 Mixed with thy poison finds its subtle food, 
Intoxicating my divinity ! 
 Disdainful hands behind thee, I may take 
 What joys I will—but thou wilt not awake. 
 
  L