The Winged Beetle

104 THE SORCERESS Oh fruit forbid ! was there but one ripe tree Fruitful for me ? Passion is gone—the wine is spilt And the sword broken at the hilt. I have invoked the demon of debauch. All blinding wines, all soul-devouring crimes I have called to me, drilled the scarlet mimes Of murder to my own fantastic nautch. And now-these demons mock me ; for their pay They sucked my inmost soul away ; And—naught may move me—I am lost, Exenterate, exhaust ! So therefore, Pan ! a corpse I come before thee To call down Life from thine abode beyond Death. Three times I circle thee : three times my breath Breathes on thy mouth ; three times I do adore Thee, Till thine eyes glitter and thy loose lips curl Make me the innocent alluring girl Of fifteen years—that were ! so to recoil The same sweet garland. . . . Hither comes the lad With shy looks—let me blind him, let me soil His swan-soft body and his soul swan-pure ! Ah ! but my life is glad. Pan smiles ! My suit preferred. Now, let these eyes allure And this worn throat throb, thrill with songs to woo him, Fiercer than ever mortal heard. . . . Ha ! to him !