The Winged Beetle

94 THE POET AND HIS MUSE My godhead over his domain of dust, And make some fœtus . . . at the least, I trust ! And in my womb I hide it, all his all Made mine with one swift suction, one slow thrust Maniacal, murderous, musical, magical ! So then I would not have him for my thrall, So I despised the thing I had devoured ! And therefore, as I squat upon this ball That spins and knows not, I shall spew the coward Out from the bliss wherein he is embowered, A stain of senseless sex upon the sod, And live my life, the honeyed and the flowered, As ever. . . . Shall the even match the odd ? His immortality worth my period ? Nay ! He is but the seed on whom I showered My rain, the dear mortality of God !