Collected Works (Vol. I)

208 THE TEMPLE OF THE HOLY GHOST Steady of purpose, girt with Truth, I pass, in my eternal youth, And watch the centuries wax and wane: Untouched by Time’s corroding tooth, Silent, immortal, unprofane! My empire changes not with time. Men’s kingdoms cadent as a rhyme Move me as waves that rise and fall. They are the parts, that crash or climb ; I only comprehend the All. I sit, as God must sit; I reign. Redemption from the threads of pain I weave, until the veil be drawn. I burn the chaff, I glean the grain ; In silence I await the dawn. THE ATHANOR. LIBERTINE touches of small fingers creep Among my curls to-night: pale ghastly kisses, Like mournful ghosts roused from their ruined sleep By clamorous cries of murder. abysses Loom in the vista keen eyes penetrate, Vague forecasts of immeasurable fate. Strange O thou belovéd blood, that wells and weeps ! O thou belovéd mouth, that beats and bleeds ! O mystic bosom where some serpent sleeps, Sweet mockery of a thousand saintlier creeds ! Even I, that breathe your perfume, taste your breath, Know, even this hour, ye are not life, but death! No death ye bring more godlike than de- sire, When seas roar tempest-lashed, and foam is flung Raging on pitiless crags, and gloomy fire Lurks in the master-cloud; corpses are swung Helpless and horrible in trough and crest— That death were music, and the lord of rest. No death ye bring as when the storm is rolled, An imminent giant on the sun-ripped snows, Where icy fingers grip the overbold Son of their secrets, and like springes close On his choked throat and frozen body— Nay | That death were twilight, and the gate of Day ! No death ye bring as his, that grips the flag In desperate fingers, and with bloody sword Flames up the thundering breach, while bastioned crag, , Glacis, and pent-house belch their mon- strous horde Of hideous engines shattering—this strife Clears the straight road of Glory and of Life ! Nay: but the hateful death that stings the soul Into rebellion ; the insensate death That chokes its own delight with words that roll Mightier-mouthed than the archangel’s breath ; The death that murders courage ere it drink The soul’s own life-blood on the desperate brink! So, from the languid fingers in my curls And dreamy worship of a woman’s eyes, I look beyond the miserable whirls Of foolish measures woven in the skies; Beyond the thoughtless stars: beyond God’s sleep : Beyond the deep: beneath the deadly deep!