Collected Works (Vol. I)

4 ACELDAMA Whose far-off fragrance steals between the leaves Of the cool forest, filling every one That reaps yon gold With strange intoxications mad and manifold. XVI. Only beware gross pleasure—the delight Of fools: the ecstasy, the trance of love— Life’s atom-bonds must strain—aye, and must move, And all the body be forgotten quite, And the pure soul flame forth, a deathless dove, Where all worlds end ! If thou art worthy God shall greet thee for a friend. XVII. Iam unworthy. In the House of Pain There are ten thousand shrines. Each one enfolds A lesser, inner, more divine, that holds A sin less palpable and less profane. The inmost is the home of God. Te moulds Infinity, The great within the small, one stainless unity! XVIII. I dare not to the greater sins aspire5 I might—so gross am I—take pleasure in These filthy holocausts, that burn to sin A damnéd incense in the hellish fire Of human lust—earth’s joys no heaven may win ; Pain holds the prize In blood-stained hands; Love laughs, with anguish in Ilis eyes. NIX. These little common sins may lead my lust To more deceitful vices, to the deeds At whose sweet name the side of Jesus bleeds In sympathy new-nurtured by the trust Of man’s forgiveness that his passion breeds— These petty crimes ! God grant they grow intense in newer, worthier times ! XX. Yet—shall I make me subject to a pang So horrible? O God, abase me still ! Break with Thy rod my unrepentant will, Lest Hell entrap me with an iron fang ! Grind me, most high Jehovah, in the mill That grinds so small ! Grind down to dust and powder Pride of Life—and all! XXII. In every ecstasy exalt my heart ; Let every trance make loose and light the wings My soul must shake, ere her pure fabric springs Clothed in the secret dream-delights of Art Transcendant into air, the tomb of Things ; Let every kiss Melt on my lips to flame, fling back the gates of Dis 13 XXII, Give me a master! not some learned priest Who by long toil and anguish has devised A train of mysteries, but some despised Young king of men, whose spirit is released From all the weariness, whose lips are prized By men not much— Ah! let them only once grow warm, my lips to touch. XXIII. Ah! under his protection, in his love, With my abasements emulating his, We surely should attain to That which Is, 1 A name contracted from Dives, sometimes given to Pluto and hence also to the lower world. But ede Dante, /vferno, Canto xxxiv,