The Winged Beetle

108 CLYTIE I throw myself upon the grass ; I wail, a lone wolf, to the moon ; Huddled and hunched, a moaning mass—How near God was those nights of June ! Death ! the mere thought of it ! For now—where is the ship ? where is my man ? The blood is bursting from my brow ; my choked shrieks prostitute to Pan ! Great Pan it is that thrusts his sword into my throat and strangles me ! Great Pan that clubs me on the sward with his robust brutality ! Ah no ! ah no ! Let me go blind rather than let that face of fear Swollen, its black indenture signed with blood, most maculate, appear ! Come then, O ship, the dream is past ! Could not I watch and wait an hour ? Nay, by the Gods, what gallant mast cuts yon horizon like a tower ? He comes, he comes, he comes. Oh hither, mine hand- maids, bind me neck to knee, Lest I should fling my body thither—where my soul stands—across the sea.