166 
THE OPIUM-SMOKER 
 
 
Art thou not burnt in the fire of my will ?   
See, by the flashes that crimson and kill 
I am the master ;  the magic is still. 
 
VI 
See !  how the wrath of my rune that I send her, 
Fire of my fire, is flung flying to end her, 
Wrapping in ruin that scintillant splendour. 
 
Fire of my fire !  how the brilliance darts forth, 
Runs to the uttermost pole of the north, 
Splashing all space with the spume of my wrath !   
 
Ah !  but the subtle, the perilous way ;   
That hath no fire to enkindle the clay. 
Ever to all be the work of me Nay !   
 
I who am Being and Knowledge and Bliss 
Lack by so much of the utter abyss :— 
Bring me, O bring me, O bring me to this !   
 
VII 
Nay !  it is over ;  I may not attain. 
Why am I faint but because I am fain 
Roll me the rapture of amber again !   
 
Ah !  but the poppy’s deciduous dream 
May not avail me to stand to the stream 
Bearing me back from the Mighty Extreme.