88 
BATHYLLUS 
 
 
Comest thou not, O my master, 
 My God, my desirable one ?   
Each breath is a death, a disaster, 
 Till thou art arisen, O sun !   
Why should I wait in the wild, 
Who am thine, as a dove undefiled 
In the arms of an ivory child ?   
 
My body is oiled and anointed 
 With dews of Thessalian bud ;   
My nails are all polished and pointed 
 And gilded, wherethrough is the blood 
Like to a roseate stream 
In the hills of the west set agleam 
That flows in its channel of cream. 
 
Let us drink, O my Lord, let us fill us 
 With purple Falernian wine !   
Thy lips on the lips of Bathyllus 
 As we lock us and link and entwine, 
Eyes ever burning like coals 
For the passion that crowns and controls 
The mystical love of our souls. 
 
Then, O if my pain were to kill me !— 
 In the garden of music and musk 
Touch thou—and the thoughts of it thrill me— 
 The poppy that flowers in the dusk !   
Poppy whose blossom is furled 
Deep in the breasts of the world— 
Ah !  but the heart is impearled !