THE WHITE WIND. 
63 
 
My maiden lily-bloom.  
For all my cheeks are flooded with desire  
And shame, and black foul fire  
That bubbles in my soul, and shoots its terror  
Out of these sloe-black eyes  
Into the lake’s unfathomable mirror,  
That, laughing back upon me laughing, lies.  
I will creep in — afar  
From the frenzy of yon nameless star. 
 
 
But who art thou  
Descending in a cloud of cherubim ?  
A moon-white sickle crowns that flashing brow ;  
Thine head like the wise bird  
Splendidly grim  
That utters that unutterable word ; 
Thy body like the bright sun in his strength ; 
And all thy virgin length 
Armed with the sword and balances, 
Gold as the ultimate galaxies — 
 
 
Thou art evanished. 
Surely the Presence of the Lord wast thou