50 
THE PRINCESS OF PANORMITA 
 
 
Wherefore reborn as I am 
 By a stream profane and foul, 
In the reign of a Tortured Lamb, 
 In the realm of a sexless Owl, 
I am set apart from the rest 
 By meed of the mystic rune 
That reads in peril and pest 
The ambrosial moon—the moon !   
 
For under the tawny star 
 That shines in the Bull above 
I can rein the riotous car 
 Of galloping, galloping Love ;   
And straight to the steady ray 
 Of the Lion-heart Lord I career, 
Pointing my flaming way 
 With the spasm of night for a spear ! 
 
O moon !  O secret sweet !   
 Chalcedony clouds of caresses 
About the flame of our feet, 
 The night of our terrible tresses !   
It is a wonder, then 
 If the people are mad with blindness, 
And nothing is stranger to men 
 Than silence, and wisdom, and kindness ?   
 
Nay !  let him fashion an arrow 
 Whose heart is sober and stout !