60 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
ATHOR AND ASAR 
 
ON the black night, beneath the winter moon, 
I clothed me in the limbs of Clodia, 
Swooning my soul out into her red throat, 
So that the glimmer of our skins, the tune 
Of our ripe rhythm, seeded the hideous play 
Of death-worms crawling on a corpse, afloat 
With life that takes its thirst 
Only from things accurst. 
 
Closer than Clodia’s clasp, Death had me down 
To his black heart, and fed upon my breath, 
So that we seemed a stillness—whiter than 
The stars, more silent than the stars, a crown 
Of stars !  For in the icy kiss of death 
I found that God that is denied to man 
So long as love and thought 
And life avail him aught.