The Winged Beetle

91 THE MANTRA-YOGI I HOW should I seek to make a song for thee When all my music is to moan thy name ? That long sad monotone—the same—the same— Matching the mute insatiable sea That throbs with life’s bewitching agony, Too long to measure and too fierce to tame. An hurtful joy, a fascinating shame Is this great ache that grips the heart of me. Even as a cancer, so this passion gnaws Away my soul, and will not ease its jaws Till I am dead. Then let me die ! Who knows But that this corpse committed to the earth May be the occasion of some happier birth ? Spring’s earliest snowdrop ? Summer’s latest rose ? II Thou knowest what asp hath fixed its lethal tooth In the white breast that trembled like a flower At thy name whispered. Thou hast marked how hour By hour its poison hath dissolved my youth,