The Winged Beetle

32 THE WIZARD WAY To attain a matter one may not utter Rather than sink in the greasy splutter Of Britons munching their bread and butter ; Ailing boys and coarse-grained girls Grown to sloppy women and brutal churls. So, I am off with staff in hand To the endless light of the nameless land. Darkness spreads its sombre streams, Blotting out the elfin dreams. I might haply be afraid, Were it not that the Feather-maid Leads me softly by the hand, Whispers me to understand. Now (when through the world of weeping Light at last starrily creeping Steals upon my babe-new sight, Light—O Light that is not light !) On my mouth the lips of her Like a stone on my sepulchre Seal my speech with ecstasy, Till a babe is born of me That is silent more than I ; For its inarticulate cry Hushes as its mouth is pressed To the pearl, her honey breast ; While its breath divinely ripples The rose-petals of her nipples, And the jetted milk he laps From the soft delicious paps,