The Winged Beetle

THE WIZARD WAY 31 And the rose of no terrene graff, And the lamp of no olive oil With heart’s blood that alone may boil. With naked breast and feet unshod I follow the wizard way to God Wherever he leads my foot shall follow ; Over the height, into the hollow, Up to the caves of pure cold breath, Down to the deeps of foul hot death, Across the seas, through the fires, Past the palace of desires ; Where he will, whether he will or no, If I go, I care not whither I go. For in me is the taint of the faery blood. Fast, fast, its emerald flood Leaps within me, violent rude Like a bestial faun’s beatitude. In me the faery blood runs hard : My sires were a druid, a devil, a bard, A beast, a wizard, a snake and a satyr ; For—as my mother said—what does it matter ? She was a fay, pure of the faery ; Queen Morgan’s daughter by an aery Demon that came to Orkney once To pay the Beetle his orisons. So, it is I that writhe with the twitch Of the faery blood, and the wizard itch