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…s proclaimed, receive The blood-wrought chaplet that I weave. Take me, and with thine infamies Mingle my shame, and on my breast Let thy desire achieve the rest. Midnight, 1897—1898.
… In the brief moment when exceeding bliss Joined to her sweet passed soul his soul, its scope Grew infinite for ever. So in this Profane desire I too may join my song unto his quenchless quire. XXVI. When Hallam died, did Tennyson attain When his warm kisses drew no answering sigh From that poor corpse corrupted utterly, When four diverse sweet dews exude to stain With chaste foul fervour the cold canopy ? Proud Reason’s sheath He cast away, the sword of Madness flames beneath ! 2 4
… ; with thirst insatiate He drank my breath, Absorbed my life in His, dispersed me, gave me death. VIII. This is release, is freedom, is desire ; This is the one hope that a man may gain ; This is the lasting ecstasy of pain That fools reject, the dread, the searching fire That quivers in the marrow, that in vain Burns secretly The unconsuméd bush where God lurks privily. 1 5
… sunlight for that mystic day That beams its torture whose red banners beat Their radiant fire Into my shrivelled head, to wither Love’s desire ? 1 2
XIII. All degradation, all sheer infamy, Thou shalt endure. Thy head beneath the mire And dung of worthless women shall desire As in some hateful dream, at last to lie ; Woman must trample thee till thou respire That deadliest fume; The vilest worms must crawl, the loathliest vampires gloom. XIV. Thou must breath in all poisons ; for thy meat, Poison ; for drink, still poison; for thy kiss, A serpent's lips ! An agony is this That sweats out venom; thy clenched hands, thy feet Ooze blood, thine eyes weep blood, thine anguish is More keen than d…
…age and lull With a damned soul’s despair, these leave their mark, Their brand of fire That burns the dross, that wings the heart to its desire. XII. No prostitution may be shunned by him Who would achieve this Heaven. No satyr-song, No maniac dance shall ply so fast the thong Of lust’s imagining perversely dim That no man’s spirit may keep pace, so strong Its pang must pierce ; Nor all the pains of hell may be one tithe as fierce. 1 7
…e I was fair ; It was your wickedness my love to win. ( Baise la lourde crinière ! ) Your passion has destroyed my soul—what care If you desire me, and I hold you in My arms a little, and you love for lair My heavy hair ! It is a fatal web your fingers spin. ( Baise la lourde crinière ! ) Let our love end as other loves begin, Or, slay me at The Moment, unaware, Or, kiss in mutual death-pang, if you dare— Or one day I will strange you within My heavy hair !