The Winged Beetle

136 ROSA DECIDUA Let a man pierce my side, I warrant him nor blood nor water flows, But such a poison as Locusta never Distilled from toad, asp, viper, scorpion, Nightshade, gall, orpiment, Jews’ hearts, Old women’s tongues, by monstrous arts ; But this my poison drips, without endeavour, From the mere soul of the world’s rose ! What alchemy of hell this ronyon Venus has skill of ! Wonder that I live ! This has been like a bag-pipe drone to wail Its monotone through high, low, fast and slow. It has been like a secret cancer, Forcing all servants of the life to give Their work to the usurper ; all its themes assail The main word Life ; they build their archipelago Of poison in each sea where life was holy. Their questions have no answer, But all’s converted to the abominable Soul-sickening thing that one is tied to. This is I Just as God in His Nature, wholly Involved therein, its tune, its motive, its quintessence. There were no meaning in Spring’s aspen spell, Where man’s sole treasury, the sky, Made bankrupt of His presence. Only, this God is a black fiend ; Of blood, the babe’s drink, weaned And fattened on—what liquor and meat ? Unnameable By all the giant horrors that haunt hell !