The Winged Beetle

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.