The Winged Beetle

THE WIZARD WAY 25 By the hangman’s hands is thrust Through the wet and writhing dust, Never black and never dried Heart’s blood of a suicide. He had plucked the hazel rod From the rude and goatish god, Even as the curved moon’s waning ray Stolen from the King of Day. He had learnt the elvish sign ; Given the Token of the Nine : Once to rave, and once to revel, Once to bow before the devil, Once to swing the thurible, Once to kiss the goat of hell, Once to dance the aspen spring, Once to croak, and once to sing, Once to oil the savoury thighs Of the witch with sea-green eyes With the unguents magical. Oh the honey and the gall Of that black enchanter’s lips As he croons to the eclipse, Mingling that most puissant spell Of the giant gods of hell With the four ingredients Of the evil elements ; Ambergris from golden spar, Musk of ox from Mongol jar, Civet from a box of jade,