The Winged Beetle

80 ROSEMARY Unto the latter things, the destined doom, Ten years ago ! how blind and black the abyss ! How swept the springtide from the winter’s womb At the sharp summons of the swift strong kiss That rapt me up from the unfriendly earth Into the star-abodes of Salmacis, Bringing the soul that slept to sudden birth. O frenzy of flame that swept across the world In orgiastic opulence of mirth, And left me ever in His arms close curled, Never, O never ! to shrink back again, But (through all ruinous time violently hurled) Never to lose the stigma of that pain, The martyr’s crown of shameful spines that weighs Even now upon these brows, that bear in vain Fantastic myrtles and deceitful bays And vine-leaves withering even ere they clung. For in His love, His love beyond all praise, I am still beautiful, still wise, still young. Nay, in the nuptial of that fruitful night Of fruitless joy unmeasured and unsung There was no seed of sorrow. O my light, My love, my lord, accept the piteous plaint Of me, the little wayward wanton wight,