Clouds Without Water

IV Should I take pleasure in the fond perfume That curls about my altars? in the throats That chant my glory in the decent gloom Of lofty minsters? Shall the blood of goats And bulls and men send up a fragrant steam To me, who am ? Shall shriek of pythoness Or wail of augur move this dreadful dream To some less melancholy consciousness ? I have created men, who made them gods Of their own excrements, and worshipped them. I cannot match these calculating clods Vho twist themselves a faecal diadem From all the thorny thoughts that plague them mast ; Break wind, and cali upon the Holy Ghost. ~ Yet I abide; for who is Pan is all. He hath no refuge in deceitful death. What soul is immanent may never fall; What soul is Breath can never fail of breath. The pity and the terror and the yearning Of this my silence and my solitude Are broken by the blazing and the burning Of this dread majesty, this million-hued Brilliance that coruscates its jetted fire Into the infinite aether; this austere And noble countenance set fast in dire And royal wrath, this awful face of fear Before whose glance the ashen world grows grey, Crashes, and chaos crumbles all away.