THE RED STAR. 
55 
Each in its emerald pavilion  
Like the death-god’s majesty  
Burning his ensanguine pain  
In my blood, my heart, my brain. 
 
Yea !  with the scent of myrrh  
And musk, and oliban, and strange perfumes  
Begotten in pre-natal glooms  
When all was — what ?  with infinite ambergris  
The excellent kiss  
Of Pan enshrouds me and invades.  
See how the night-borne shades  
Darken the grove !  
There is no moon to-night  
The foul red star blots out the stars. 
 
So, Pan, thy love 
That brooks not any light 
Shall brand its shameful scars 
Even on this flesh — this royal flesh shall serve 
For the brute lust whose nerve 
Shall eat up blindness in me, and discover  
The mind of Pan, maker of all,  
In all — his lover.