The Winged Beetle

BATHYLLUS 89 Not babes to the war of the ages Thy dews of devotion beget ; But thoughts that illumine the sages Are flowers of our fashioning yet. Music and song are thereof Gotten, my god, and above Love, the fulfilling of love. Ah master ! thy fire the enrichment Of all the vain store of the shrine ! All mine to entice by bewitchment The joy that is utterly thine ! Ah ! but thou sailest, a swan Stately and splendid upon The lake that was waste and wan ! Oh now ! let thy rage interrupt My mischievous petulant smile Whose secret is hot and corrupt, Leers loose at the lips and is vile ! Tear off the virginal wreath ! Tear it with tigerish teeth ! Then, oh the sword to its sheath ! Thine anger is redder and rougher ; Thou huntest with thyrsus and thong. Ah God ! it is I that must suffer, For thee ’tis enough to be strong. Strike ! ere libation be spilt. Home ! through the grace of the gilt. Stab ! to the hilt ! to the hilt !