Ambergris

46 AMBERGRIS FROM THE TEMPLE OF THE HOLY GHOST The Athanor Libertine touches of small fingers creep Among my curls to-night : pale ghastly kisses, Like mournful ghosts roused from their ruined sleep By clamorous cries of murder. Strange abysses Loom in the vista keen eyes penetrate, Vague forecasts of immeasurable fate. O thou belov’d blood, that wells and weeps ! O thou belov’d mouth, that beats and bleeds ! O mystic bosom where some serpent sleeps, Sweet mockery of a thousand saintlier creeds ! Even I, that breathe your perfume, taste your breath, Know, even this hour, ye are not life, but death ! No death ye bring more godlike than desire, When seas roar tempest-lashed, and foam is flung Raging on pitiless crags, and gloomy fire Lurks in the master-cloud ; corpses are swung Helpless and horrible in trough and crest— That death were music, and the lord of rest. No death ye bring as when the storm is rolled, An imminent giant on the sun-ripped snows, Where icy fingers grip the overbold Son of their secrets, and like springes close On his choked throat and frozen body—Nay ! That death were twilight, and the gate of Day ! No death ye bring as his, that grips the flag In desperate fingers, and with bloody sword Flames up the thundering breach, while bastioned crag, Glacis, and pent-house belch their monstrous horde