47 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE PRIESTESS OF PANORMITA 
 
HEAR me, Lord of the Stars !   
 For thee I have worshipped ever 
With stains and sorrows and scars, 
 With joyful, joyful endeavour. 
Hear me, O lilywhite goat !   
 O crisp as a thicket of thorns, 
With a collar of gold for Thy throat 
 A scarlet bow for Thy horns !   
 
Here, in the dusty air, 
 I build Thee a shrine to yew. 
All green is the garland I wear, 
 But I feed it with blood for dew !   
After the orange bars 
 That ribbed the green west dying 
Are dead, O Lord of the Stars, 
 I come to Thee, come to Thee crying. 
 
The ambrosial moon that arose 
 With breasts slow heaving in splendour 
Drops wine from her infinite snows 
 Ineffably, utterly tender.