Holy of holies Confessions of an anarchist [by J. E. Barlas] |
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18
XIV.
[The comet passing furious and fast]
The comet passing furious and fastShakes poison from his hair in flowers of flame.
Apollo the destroyer is his name
Scattering his arrows and his plagues broadcast.
His yellow locks are stretched out on the blast,
His forward face is eager on its aim:
He wades in blood to the far goal of fame
Leaving destruction desolate where he passed.
Such would I be, so pass through darkling space
To the bright sun, the temple of the soul,
Nor turn toward the left hand or the right.
But thou, a silent and a smiling face,
Shalt gaze upon me struggling to the goal
Far up above in liquid lands of light.
Sep. 9th, 1885.
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