The Winged Beetle

106 CLYTIE I STRAIN mine eyes across the surge ; the spindrift cuts me like a whip ; The wet wind wails a wolfish dirge for its slain paramour the ship. The ship, the ship that brings me home more than all hoarded galleons Brought through that sunset-blooded foam, with hulls of teak and beaks of bronze ! More than all store of gold or spice, ivory, slaves or sandal- wood Art thou, O marvel beyond price, O bee-hive of beatitude ! Is not each cell that builds thee up a well of honey-scented sips ? Is not thy soul one fragrant cup of nectar at my thirsty lips ? Thou bearest in thine hollow staff the primal fire, the flower’s fume, Quintessence—now may Zeus engraff its pollen in my wintry womb !