 | In the Dorian Mood |  |
34
THE VEIL OF ISIS
To lift her veil, whose broideries
Are hornéd moons and lotuses,
None dare, though priest and thurifer
Charm her with frankincense and myrrh,
And long-drawn mystic harmonies.
Of all mankind's divinities
None secreter than this of his!
Behold, 'tis but to anger her
To lift her veil.
Are hornéd moons and lotuses,
None dare, though priest and thurifer
Charm her with frankincense and myrrh,
And long-drawn mystic harmonies.
Of all mankind's divinities
None secreter than this of his!
Behold, 'tis but to anger her
To lift her veil.
Natheless, in each man's time there is
A lifting of her veil: each dies.
To die, when all the hate and stir
Are o'er, to be a slumberer,
To dream perchance,—Oh, is not this
To lift her veil?
A lifting of her veil: each dies.
To die, when all the hate and stir
Are o'er, to be a slumberer,
To dream perchance,—Oh, is not this
To lift her veil?
| In the Dorian Mood | |