The Winged Beetle

ROSA COELI 11 I mock with the weak word of wife, I was sucked down into the crater rim, Into the crimson damask dim Candescent cave of night— O then I mock myself with words ! They are like cardinal-coloured birds And honey-coloured doves : Yet one thing mortal serves to name another As mortal as itself. Why must our deathless loves Be stained by the black-hearted mother That called things by dead names ? The sunny elf Language shall play with the ethereal flames But never dare approach The central and volcanic fire, The inmost Force, nor, like a glittering army Send forth its scouts to encroach Upon our citadel desire. Ay ! though these flaming sentences Eat like strong acid in my vitals, char me, Blast me like lightning, smash me like black seas Towering above the lofty ship Whose masts did menace to the skies, They are but plaisters of cool leaves that dip In pleasant water to the white-hot wise Terrible flames of hell that would devour me, Did not the raptures of thy love embower me In meads Elysian, fields of foamless fire, Nights of invincible desire,