44
THE EQUINOX
Things beyond history and art
In the tresses that tumble over her earl
In what grim gloom did Satan get
This child on what wood—nymph dishevelled?
Whence was the wind that swayed the woods
On their bestial beatitudes?
Or what garden of rose and violet
Lay under the moon wherein they revelled?
She is like a poppy-petal.
All the seas of sleep are hidden
Under the languorous eyelids, whose
Lashes are long and strong to bruise
My heart where her lusts like hornets settle
On sacred leaves, on flowers forbidden.
She is like a drug of wonder.
All the limits of sense dissolve
When we {all like snows from the precipice
Sun—kissed to the black ravines of ice.
I am drowned in the universal thunder;
The hours disrupt, the aeons involve.
Ah
I not in any mortal mood
Ends the great verb we conjugate
From the highest hyberbole she doth swerve
In an incommensurable curve,
And the line of our beatitude
Is one with the sigil of our Fate.