Clouds Without Water

XII There gods descend; there devils rise. We dance, Dance to the madness of the waning moon, Write centuries of murder in a glance, Chiliads of rape in one unearthly tune. There is the sacrament of sin unveiled And there the abortion of Demeter eaten, The potion of black Dione distilled, The measure of Pan by whirling women beaten. These are but symbols, and our souls the truth; These sacraments, and we the gods of them ; The sabbath incense curls to us to soothe Our spleen, engarlands us, a diadem For that unutterable deed that hurled Us, flaming thunderbolts! against the world. — In ASIII There needs not ask the obscure oracle Whereto these dire imaginations tend. We read this sigil in the dust of Hell: ” The Gods have given for this no happy end. What end should we desire, who grasp the gain We have despoiled from everlasting time, Who gather sunshine from the iciest rain And turn the dullest prose to rhythm and rime? Think you we cannot warm our hands and laugh Fven at the fire that scatheth adamant? Think you we shall not knead the utmost chaff Into a bread worth Heaven's high sacrament And from the bitter dregs of Hell’s own wine Distil a liquor utterly divine?