The Winged Beetle

88 BATHYLLUS Comest thou not, O my master, My God, my desirable one ? Each breath is a death, a disaster, Till thou art arisen, O sun ! Why should I wait in the wild, Who am thine, as a dove undefiled In the arms of an ivory child ? My body is oiled and anointed With dews of Thessalian bud ; My nails are all polished and pointed And gilded, wherethrough is the blood Like to a roseate stream In the hills of the west set agleam That flows in its channel of cream. Let us drink, O my Lord, let us fill us With purple Falernian wine ! Thy lips on the lips of Bathyllus As we lock us and link and entwine, Eyes ever burning like coals For the passion that crowns and controls The mystical love of our souls. Then, O if my pain were to kill me !— In the garden of music and musk Touch thou—and the thoughts of it thrill me— The poppy that flowers in the dusk ! Poppy whose blossom is furled Deep in the breasts of the world— Ah ! but the heart is impearled !