 | The Stranger at the Gate |  |
II
But—Oh, the ancient glory in your eyes!
How bursts a dazzling wonder all around!
Wild tempests of ineffable surprise—
All color, dream and sound!
How bursts a dazzling wonder all around!
Wild tempests of ineffable surprise—
All color, dream and sound!
You lip the awful flagons of old time,
And mystic apples lure you to the bite!
Blown down the dizzy winds of woven rhyme,
Dead women come and woo you in the night!
And mystic apples lure you to the bite!
Blown down the dizzy winds of woven rhyme,
Dead women come and woo you in the night!
You tread the myrtle woods past time and place,
Where shadows flit and splendid echoes croon;
And through the boughs some fatal storied face
Breathes muted music like a Summer moon!
Where shadows flit and splendid echoes croon;
And through the boughs some fatal storied face
Breathes muted music like a Summer moon!
I know the secret altars where you kneel.
I know what lips fling fever in your kiss.
That sorry little drab to whom you steal
Is Queen Semiramis!
I know what lips fling fever in your kiss.
That sorry little drab to whom you steal
Is Queen Semiramis!
The Bacchanalia of the sap now reigns!
Priapic fires burn yonder bough with blooms!
Lo, goat-songs warbled from the vineyard fanes!
Lo, Venus-nipples in the apple-glooms!
Priapic fires burn yonder bough with blooms!
Lo, goat-songs warbled from the vineyard fanes!
Lo, Venus-nipples in the apple-glooms!
54
Ah, who is older than the vernal surge,
And who is wiser than the sap a-thrill?
Forever, he who feels the lyric urge
Shall do its will!
And who is wiser than the sap a-thrill?
Forever, he who feels the lyric urge
Shall do its will!
—Your rhymes?—Some nimbler footed have been worse.
What broken trumpet echoes from the van
Where march the cohorts of Immortal Verse!
Well—one must be a poet if one can.
What broken trumpet echoes from the van
Where march the cohorts of Immortal Verse!
Well—one must be a poet if one can.
| The Stranger at the Gate | |