Untitled 19There is wailing in my ears.
Have I lost my mind at last?
Miseries here passed unshod,
And spirits of unspoken fears.
Where the bleeding plaster breaks
On the scraped and empty wall,
In the bare decrepit hall,
A long and eerie sound it makes,
A bloody, miserable sound,
Like a child that starved to death,
Like expiring, laboured breath,
Like the wailing of a hound
That is dying in the cold.
Stains of red reach from the wall,
A leaking, pulsing scarlet pall,
Over crack and over fold
AsmodeusOut of tempest and fire-light thou stridest,
From the heart and the marrow of bliss,
From Hell, that of all stars the brightest
In the abyss,
That which ecstasy cleaves without measure,
Where lascivious blood throbs and wanes,
It has birthed thee, to girdle with pleasure
And tread over pain.
Thy heart, tender and dark as thy tresses
Is aspirant with love and desire,
Which in passion combine their caresses
To sting thee with fire.
Thy lips soft as rose-petals, and sweet,
And red with rapture and wine,
They are cloven with pleasure to meet
These fingers of thine ---
They are fragile and woven with nightmares,
Vicious in passion and lust,
And expose that which only the light bares
In shadow is thrust...
In pleasure that halts and astounds thee,
In the arch of thy golden-lit side,
Such beauty and sin that abounds thee
Thou canst not hide.
Languid eyelids that guard sweetened passion,
In the pulse of thy body concealed
And entwined with thy limbs in a fashion
Not yet revealed.
Though the wo
And a God StirsIn absinthe of fears the heart is perished,
Its flights are chastised, its wings are bound,
And moral and virtues and memories cherished,
Like nettle, will throttle its saturnine sound.
Its song is unheard, it lies still on its lips,
For its modesty mutes it, its fear bids it stay;
And lachrymose grief, in his fortitude, grips
Like a vise in his clutches the luminous ray.
In a transient flash of a dream of a dream,
The heart sees, and entranced by the glory unveiled,
It will wake, perhaps; if Man would follow the gleam
Of a hope to break loose, then no chain would prevail.
The wind would sweep his soul up
And his fingers would bid it flight;
Through glimmering tracts of stars
It would swift traverse the night,
Who would tilt and twist and twirl
Her chatoyant bands of light.
And the slumbering sapphire seas
Would expose their diaphanous hearts,
Where their grey and azure gleams
With fleeting emerald darts,
And it glistens with dew on the fringe
Where foam and water parts.
And the sharp-
The Hedonist's SongStill lovelier thou art, o Life, when flushed with gladness,
And unblemished with pale strife, nor girt with sadness,
For these do not become thy brow. Much rather would I let
Thy face be washed with dew than stinging labour-sweat,
And fain would I to see thee clothed in raiment of the Moon and Sun
Than see thee idly reposed in vestments that are crude and badly spun;
The modest are the meager or those bent in sanctimonious pride,
Who are all too glad and eager to display their goodly side.
Thou art not such. Fain to surrender to whatever whim, thou sayest:
"Let the splendid show their splendour, let them come forth who are best,
Let them revel, drink sweet wines, and lose themselves to every lust,
For they are not yet dead --- but mine, to do that which the living must."
Ah Life, thou turnest at leisure, wing from hill to barren plain,
Thou canst quicken hearts with pleasure, and divide and cleave with pain.
Those who curse thee when thou dost them wrong are merely cowards, or the mee