38 
AMBERGRIS 
 
 
 
 
FROM THE TEMPLE OF THE HOLY GHOST 
 
The Reaper 
 
In middle music of Apollo’s corn 
She stood, the reaper, challenging a kiss ; 
The lips of her were fresher than the morn, 
The perfume of her skin was ambergris ; 
The sun had kissed her body into brown ; 
Ripe breasts thrown forward to the summer breeze ; 
Warm tints of red lead fancy to the crown, 
Her coils of chestnut, in abundant ease, 
That bound the stately head.  What joy of youth 
Lifted her nostril to respire the wind ? 
What pride of being ?  What triumphal truth 
Acclaimed her queen to her imperial mind ? 
 
I watched, a leopard, stealthy in the corn, 
As if a tigress held herself above ; 
My body quivered, eager to be torn, 
Stung by the snake of some convulsive love ! 
The leopard changed his spots ;  for in me leapt 
The mate, the tiger.  Murderous I sprang 
Across the mellow earth :  my senses swept, 
One torrent flame, one soul-dissolving pang. 
How queenly bent her body to the grip ! 
How lithe it slips, her bosom to my own ! 
The throat leans back, to tantalise the lip :— 
The sudden shame of her is over thrown ! 
O maiden of the spirit of the wheat, 
One ripening sunbeam thrills thee to the soul, 
Electric from red mane to amber feet ! 
The blue skies focus, as a burning bowl, 
The restless passion of the universe 
Into our mutual anger and distress, 
To be forbidden (the Creator’s curse)