The Soul of Osiris

116 THE SOUL OF OSIRIS. 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 Of hideous engines shattering—this strife Clears the straight road of Glory and of Life ! Nay : but the hateful death that stings the soul Into rebellion ; the insensate death That chokes its own delight with words that roll Mightier-mouthed than the archangel’s breath ; The death that murders courage ere it drink The soul’s own life-blood on the desperate brink ! So, from the languid fingers in my curls And dreamy worship of a woman’s eyes, I look beyond the miserable whirls Of foolish measures woven in the skies ; Beyond the thoughtless stars : beyond God’s sleep : Beyond the deep : beneath the deadly deep ! Infinite rings of luminous ether move At first amid the blackness that I seek : Infinite motion and amazing love Deaden the lustre of the night. I speak