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Page 1 of 11912 · PDF PAGE 8
HOUSEHOLD GODS Tue Scene is af the hearth of Crassus, where is a Little bronze altar dedicated to the Lares and Penates, A pale flame rises from the burning sandal-wood, on which CRASSUS throws densoin and musk. He is standing in deep dejection. Crassus. MOKE without fire! No thrill of tongues licks up The offerings in the cup. Dead falls desire. Black smoke thou art, © altar-flame, that dost dismember, Devour the hearth, to leave no ember To warm this heart. I see her still— Adela dancing here Till dim gods did appear To work our will. "
1912 · PDF PAGE 21
…Anica. Then take my kiss. Crassus. Your mouth is like a rose of fire. But what is this? I cannot bear it. Aurcra. Ail Uhu! Uhul It is my heart; this arrow strikes me through. Stir not one muscle for a moment. Death! You beast, you kill me with your urgent breath. Crassus. © how I love you! [He moves violently. 24
1912 · PDF PAGE 26
…e. Pan. Shrill, shrill Over the hill! ‘The hunter is hot—this is the kill Scream! Scream! Dissolving the dream Of life, the knife to the heart of the wife! The fountain jets Its flood of blood, And the moss that it wets Is an amethyst flame of violets. ‘Who shall escape Murder and rape When I am alive in my solemn shape? Shrili, shrill, 29
1912 · PDF PAGE 13
…great swell upon it, and strange fish Played in its oily depths. Some monstrous wish, ‘The shadow of some unspeakable desire, Strikes my heart cold, and sets my brain on fire. Aurcra. Learn this, as we pass through the portico: Fear nothing; there is nothing you can know! And by these terraces and steps that gleam Wintry, although the summer night is hot, This—what we seek is never what we find! 16
1912 · PDF PAGE 27
‘Over the hill! The hunter is hot—this is the kill! The heart of the home Is a fury of foam; ‘The storm is awake, and the billows comb. But though I be ‘Their frenzy of glee, I am also the passionless soul of the sea! Mine eyes glint fire, And my cruel lips curl; ‘Mine the desire Of the god and the girl; But fierier and fteeter, And subtler and sweeter Than the race of the rhythm, the march of the metre, Is the shrilling, sbrilling Of the knife in the killing That ends, when it must, (O the throb and the thrust!) In death, in the dust, The sile…