The Winged Beetle

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.