THE COURT OF THE PROFANE. 
35 
Ah turn, my bosom for thy love is cold ; 
My arms are empty, and my lips can hold 
No converse with thee far away like this. 
O for that communing pregnant with a kiss 
That is reborn when lips are set together 
To link our souls in one desirous tether, 
And weld our very bodies into one. 
Ah fiend Jehovah, what then have we done 
To earn thy curse ?  Is love like ours too strong 
To dwell before thee, and do thy throne no wrong ? 
Art thou grown jealous of the fiery band ? 
Lo !  thou hast spoken, and thy strong command 
Bade earth and air divide, and on the sea 
Thy spirit moved—and thou must envy me ! 
Gird all thy godhead to destroy a man 
Whose little moment is a single span, 
Whose small desire is nothing—and thy power 
Must root from out his bosom the fair flower 
Of passion !  Listen to thine own voice yet : 
“ A rich man many flocks and herds did get, 
“ And took the poor man’s lamb.”  Thou art the man ! 
Our love must lie beneath thy bitter ban ! 
Thou petty, envious God !  My king, be sure 
His brute force shall not to the end endure ; 
Some stronger soul than thine shall wrest his crown 
And thrust him from his own high heaven down 
To some obscure forgetful hell.  For me 
Forsake thy hopes in him.  We worship, we, 
Rather the dear delights we know and hold ; 
The first cool kiss, within the water cold