94 
THE POET AND HIS MUSE 
 
 
My godhead over his domain of dust, 
And make some fœtus . . . at the least, I trust !   
 And in my womb I hide it, all his all 
Made mine with one swift suction, one slow thrust 
 
Maniacal, murderous, musical, magical !   
So then I would not have him for my thrall, 
 So I despised the thing I had devoured !   
And therefore, as I squat upon this ball 
 
That spins and knows not, I shall spew the coward 
Out from the bliss wherein he is embowered, 
 A stain of senseless sex upon the sod,  
And live my life, the honeyed and the flowered, 
 
As ever. . . . Shall the even match the odd ?   
His immortality worth my period ?   
 Nay !  He is but the seed on whom I showered 
My rain, the dear mortality of God !