The Winged Beetle

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 ?