The Winged Beetle

THE GARDEN OF JANUS 37 VII I rose to seek him. First my footsteps faint Pressed the starred moss ; but soon I wandered, like some sweet sequestered saint, Into the wood, my mind. The moon Was staggered by the trees ; with fierce constraint Hardly one ray Pierced to the ragged earth about their roots that lay. VIII I wandered, crying on my Lord. I wandered Eagerly seeking everywhere. The stores of life that on my lips he squandered Grew into shrill cries of despair, Until the dryads frightened and dumfoundered Fled into space— Like to a demon-king’s was grown my maiden face ! IX At last I came unto the well, my soul. In that still glass, I saw no sign Of him, and yet—what visions there uproll To cloud that mirror-soul of mine ? Above my head there screams a flying scroll Whose word burnt through My being as when stars drop in black disastrous dew. X For in that scroll was written how the globe Of space became ; of how the light