Panama and Other Poems Narrative and Occasional :: :: University of Virginia Library

Virgins, that to this height have followed me,
Now that the period of our wail is o'er,
I must descend to earth and die the death.
Then for the last time I lift up my voice:
How hard it seems from glory suddenly
To be cut off; for had I been a babe
Far easier were it to forsake the sun,
Unrealising what I lose in death;
Or had it come that I must die at last,
Snatching with veined hands at a flickering fire,
Living now forgotten; yet see me where I stand
Tip-toe upon some primrose bank of time,
Thrilled with strange scents, with golden ardours fired,
Ready for the revelation of life;
A palpitating priestess flushed with dawn,

Like some young singer with bird-bubbling soul
Wailing to die, such honey on his lips,
Yet sent to silence, fading unexpressed,
While the bright stars yearn o'er him from the orbs,
Gathering like splendid tears upon his grave.
But I so apt, so ripe for all the bliss,
May not have manhood's burning touch on me,
Nor may I bring those children to the air,
Weaning them, sweet and wise and lovable.
But his great vow demands a virgin's blood;
I give my country crimson baptism.
So let us now descend in order due,
And be it not seen on any maiden brow
A shrinking from the deed that is to be.
You mountains, you shall hear no further cry.