The Winged Beetle

164 THE OPIUM-SMOKER Boy, as you love me, I charge you to fold Pipe over pipe into gardens of gold Such as a god may be glad to behold. Seated on high in the æons of doom, Sucked as a seed to the infinite womb, Sealed is my soul in the sheath of its tomb. Boy, as you love me, I charge you to mould Pipe after pipe, till the heavens are rolled Back and are lost as a tale that is told ! III Silence and darkness are weaving a web Broidered with Nothing at uttermost ebb :— Cover, oh cover the shaming of Seb ! Fling the wide veil, O Nuit, on the shame !— Shame from the Knowledge and unto the Name— Hide it, O hide it, in flowers of flame ! Now in the balance of infinite things Stirs not a feather ; the universe swings Poised on the stealth of ineffable wings. Surely the sable Osirian bird Sole in the æther shall utter the Word Now that its crying can never be heard !