The Winged Beetle

THE PRINCESS OF PANORMITA 51 Let him pierce his God to the marrow ! Let the soul of his God flow out ! Whether a snake or a sun In his horoscope Heaven hath cast, It is nothing ; every one Shall win to the moon at last. The mage hath wrought by his art A billion shapes in the sun. Look through to the heart of his heart, And the many are shapes of one ! An end to the art of the mage, And the cold grey blank of the prison ! An end to the adamant age ! The ambrosial moon is arisen. I have bought a lilywhite goat For the price of a crown of thorns, A collar of gold for its throat, A scarlet bow for its horns. I have bought a lark in the lift For the price of a butt of sherry : With these, and God for a gift, It needs no wine to be merry ! I have bought for a wafer of bread A garden of poppies and clover ; For a water bitter and dead A foam of fire flowing over.