The Winged Beetle

157 AVE ADONAI PALE as the night that pales In the dawn’s pearl-pure pavilion, I wait for thee, with my dove’s breast Shuddering, a god its bitter guest— Have I not gilded my nails And painted my lips with vermilion ? Am I not wholly stript Of the deeds and thoughts that obscure thee ? I wait for thee, my soul distraught With aching for some nameless naught In its most arcane crypt— Am I not fit to endure thee ? Girded about the paps With a golden girdle of glory, Dost thou wait me, thy slave who am, As a wolf lurks for a strayed white lamb ? The chain of the stars snaps, And the deep of night is hoary ! Thou whose mouth is a flame With its seven-edged sword proceeding,