160 
THE WILD ASS 
 
 
Faintly and feebly murmuring 
 
I uttered the mysterious runes, 
And bade my body’s sleekness sing 
 
Silky, satanic, subtle tunes. 
 
Was he not holy ?  Milk of moons 
 
Were not so pallid as his cheek, 
And roses of a million Junes 
 
His mouth left livid.  So I seek 
 
In all God’s seas a tiny creek 
 
Wherein to moor my shallop.  Nay !   
He is a mountain, chill with bleak 
 
Stark winds of innocence astray !   
 
The fearful passion sweeps me away. 
 
So with a passionate thrill of fear 
I creep—like shadows across Day !   
 
Like Winter on the expended year !— 
 
From those cold feet, a frozen meer, 
 
To those cold knees, a lost lagoon, 
To that wild woodland, strangely near 
 
To the lone tower that tops the moon !   
 
Verily and Amen !  Unhewn 
 
The great grim forest menaces. 
What gardener may dare to prune 
 
Those woods to build me palaces ?