The Winged Beetle

93 THE POET AND HIS MUSE TWO years I strove with all my store of spice To lure the victim to the sacrifice. I tempted him with garlands and with dances, With every virtue and with every vice, With girls that twisted all his maiden fancies Into a spasm of lust ; with necromancies Wherein he knew the utmost God to be No more than the plain torsion of his trances. Maugre device and stratagem, I see How all his virgin soul revolts from me, Knowing me for the ancient whore that sits Crowned and triumphant through eternity : Nor, though my beauty dazzled all his wits, Could he conceive that frailest fairy flits Across the abyss of mine imagining. So I came back from all my snares and pits, Crowned him with roses, called him lord and king. Then the poor fool fell on me, stammering Pale phrases of his mortal love, a thing Almost too petty for my star of lust To attract within her orbit : still I swing