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THE WINGED BEETLE
This edition consists of 50 copies on handmade paper numbered from 1-50, and 300 copies on ordinary paper numbered from 51-350.
This copy is No.
THE WINGED BEETLE
BY ALEISTER CROWLEY
“There is a budding morrow in midnight”
PRIVATELY PRINTED 1910
I Dedicate this Collection
of Poems
to
DEDICATION
Out of the East, out of the East Didst thou flame forth, O Son of Man, The chainless champion of the Beast! A warrior comet, thy plumes fan The shuddering air’s black wildernesses To fiends’ insatiate caresses.
Thou camest crowned and helmed and armed, Sworded, a mighty man of war: Swayed all the stars, aghast, alarmed As at the Thunderbolt of Thor! The very aethyr rocked and shook At thine indomitable look!
[Here must we utterly restrict Our theological remarks. One whom not Heaven could contradict Says: Now, Sir, if you please, no larks! Hence for third stanza (with a curse) I write instead this sorry verse.]
Yea, with one song of starry flame In brilliance of immortal youth Didst thou stand stedfast and proclaim Freedom and Ecstasy and Truth, Erect amid the wreck of Things Poised on inexorable wings!
. . . .
So much the universe may see When its bat’s-eyes may endure the sun: This secret rests my prize to me, That I knew thee, surpassed of none, Fighting and faithful to the end, A Perfect knight, a perfect friend.
CONTENTS
Rosa Coeli. To my wife [Rose Kelly] Abjad-i-al’ain. To the memory of “Alain Lutiy” The Hermit. To Cecil Jones [George Cecil Jones] The Wizard Way. To J. F. C. Fuller The Wings. To Dot The Garden of Janus To V. B. Neuburg [Victor B. Neuburg] The Two Secrets To Mary Waska The Priestess of Panormita. To Hilda Howard The Hawk and the Babe. To Raymond Radclyffe The Duellists. To Norah Moore Athor and Asar. To Frank Harris After Judgment. To Ophelia L—— The Five Adorations. To Gerald Pinsent Telepathy. To Euphemia L—— The Swimmer. To Norman Mudd The Muse. To Kathleen —— The God and the Girl. To Dorothy L—— Rosemary. To the memory of “Hippolytus” Au Bal. To Horace Sheridan-Bickers Disappointment. To Sadie B—— The Octopus. To my Mother [Emily Crowley] The Eyes of Dorothy. To Dot Bathyllus. To Sliman bin Chirch The Mantra-Yogi. To Reginald Haselden The Poet and his Muse. To L. K—— Lilith. To L. K—— Sport and Marriage. To my Wife [Rose Kelly] The Twins. To A. O. Spare [Austin Osman Spare] The Convert. To Millicent Tobias The Sorceress. To L. K—— The Child. To Lord A—— Clytie. To L. K—— A Slim Gilt Soul. To Lord A—— The Silence of Columbine. To Dot L—— The ArchÆologist. To Ctesse —— The Ladder. To K. M. Ward Bellafonna. To Dot L—— The Poet at Bay. To Wilfred Merton Ut. To Arnold Bennett Rosa Decidua. To Lord Salvesen The Circle and the Point. To Ouarda the Seer [Rose Kelly] In Memoriam. Ad Fidelum Infidelem. To Elaine W K—— The Sphinx. To “The Sphinx” The Jew of Fez. To Winston Churchill The Pentagram. To George Raffalovich Song. To Kathleen K—— An Hymn. To the Countess of Tankerville Prologue to Rodin in Rime. To Kathleen K—— The Camp Fire. To the memory of A. C. Swinburne Ave Adonai. To G. M. Marston [Guy Marston] The Wild Ass. To Prince O. of Z. K. The Opium-Smoker. To Elaine Simpson In Manu Dominæ. To Anna Grossmann
Mr. Todd: A Morality. In memoriam Lilith
TRANSLATIONS
L’Amour et le Crane L’Achimie de Douleur Le Vampire Le Balcon Le Gout de L’Infini L’Heautontimoroumenos Le vin de L’Asassin Woman Tout Entiere Le vin des Amants Le Revenant Lolo de Valence Le Beau Navire L’Invitation Au Voyage Epilogue to “Petits Poems en Prose” Colloque Sentimental En Sourdine The Magician
My obligations are due to the editors of “The Equinox,” “Vanity Fair,” “Parsifal,” and other papers, from which most of these poems are reprinted.
ROSA COELI
I
Rose of the World! Ruby with blood from the bright veins of God Caught in the chalice of your heart, and pearled With dew at many a melting period When the amethyst lustre of your eyes dissolves The veil that hides your naked splendour From these infirm resolves And halting loves of your poor poet’s soul With radiance mild and tender, So that I see awhile the golden goal! Yea! all your light involves Me, me tenebrous, me too cold and base Ever to kindle to the maiden face (Three years my wife, three years of me unwon!) That would be mine, be mine, Were I but man enough To endure the rapture of that sudden sun The knowledge of your love, The assumption of me into that sweet shrine Whose godhead duly knows Only the one wind of the utmost heaven Through hyacinthine deeps Down from the sapphirine steeps And azure abyss that blows; Only the one sun on the steppéd snows; Only the one star of the sister seven; Only the one moon in the orchard close In the one hour that unto love is given Of all the hours of bliss; Only the one joy in a world of woes; Only the one spark in the storm-cloud riven; Only the one shaft through the rose-dawn driven, Thy shaft, Eros! Not as Apollo or as Artemis Loosing gray death from golden thong To slay the poet in a song, The lover in a kiss; But to divide the inmost marrow With that ensanguine arrow; But to unite each bleeding part Of that most universal heart; Leaving us slaves, and kings; Bound, and with eagle’s wings; One soul, comprising all that may be thought, One soul, conscious of naught.
II
Rose of the World! Your mystic petals spread Like wings over my head. The tide of burning blood upon my face Drowns all the floating images That danced their spectre saraband In Bacchic race, phastastical embrace, Upon the sepulchres, the dizzy seas Of this my mind, Sabbatic rout that spanned These straits my soul! Ay, they are dead and drowned (And damned, I doubt!) Ah God! I am exhaust In the red moon’s holocaust! God! God! The chasms secret and profound Suck down the porphyry flood Of your maniacal, ensorcelled blood That maddens and bewitches. My life is suffocated—now I swoon— I die! I am in hell, red hell, red hell, Circles me closer; all the soul’s afire As if the boreal moon With all the icy Lapland hags That shiver on ‘s hibernal crags Were but a thin white shell Hoarding the seed of many a million suns, Giving its life up unto its desire— Out bursts the womb of my unguessed-at godhead; The rose flames out in the flood; and all at once, A brilliance disembodied, I am shattered like the dew upon your leaves; So that the lampless hour Strikes, and an unborn universe perceives Its lonely mother-flower, Us, in our love’s arcane Briatic bower. We scatter light, a music-tingling shower; We breathe out life, a crimson whisper; We radiate love, a velvet-soft complaint, Most like the echo of a chime at vesper Rung far across narcissus-haunted leas, Lilied lagoons, and moon-enchanted seas, By the high-bosomed boy, large-eyed, with fasting faint That shares an hermitage with some devoutest saint.
III
As, in our life, I passed the awful gate Where like a Cerberus sate The triform silence, Fate, And bade the red blood bloom Within that Palace of untasted gloom; As, in our life, confronting the black forms— Colossal ghosts, like storms!— I did abide in the most holy hall And let the dread word fall, Nor bade the red axe falter There as I bowed mine head Upon the amber altar, And shed my life out there before ye all, Careless if I had summoned from the skies Some young true God, or spoiled the sacrifice, And were but dead as any man is dead! So I have given up my inmost life Even unto you, sweet wife, Careless—yet conscious of the babe-stirred womb Of some dread Mother older than the Tomb, Wiser than Life, more pitiful than Death.
IV
Your wine-stained and wine-coloured hair unloosing, Mingle your wine-wise breath, Spiritual siren! with the scent seducing Your body sheds, scarred with the bleeding kisses My tenderness bit in, Like to a lion feeding in wild white wildernesses, My spirit sensible to your skin: Mingle them to a crescent character That shall set shimmering all the parchment fine And send a steam like wine Laden with ecstasy and pain Choral through all the passion-stained and passion-trembling air. Inspire a closer strain Such as strange orchids give, and hyacinths, Among the broken pedestals and plinths] Where the gray Lords of Time, of Time forgotten, Lie in the herbage rotten Of the unpeopled forest.
V
O Song! O amorous and seducing, I see thee as thou soarest, So that, the girders of the soul unloosing, That Child of you and me, O rose of roses, That Child whose life encloses Our lives, is therefore I, may wander ever By the fritillary-fringéd river, Through lotus gardens of the sleepy gods, On hills where every timid oread tries Blue gentian as disguise From holier (though she think profaner) eyes, On seas where, it may be, (to even the odds!) Each nymph and undine issues from the foam Armed with a pearly mirror and with a coral comb To tire her beauty, lure me to the lakes Of light where strikes the day to hyaline floors Whereon blithe fish and emerald water snakes Play all the day, and all their innocence adores Is some old anchor with its rusty flakes Fallen from God knows what forgotten ship. No! not in Fancy’s palace will I play, Nor in imagination’s deep will dip The timid foot; but rather will I strip Each rag of thought, and leap Into the sunset deep Still glowing with the glamour Of your life’s blood, and ashen gold With floating gossamer your hair, that might enfold A giant god, and strangle him anon With starry serpents like Laocoon, A stoic god that might enamour And draw him with its tendrils into time.
VI
My mouth was wet with the delicious crime Of kissing you, one night, when in a vision Your hair was like a forest of tall pines In winter; black strange dwarfs with crooked spines And elfin eyes, and bleating mouths that worked All manner of grimace and bleak derision Bore them away; hollow-eyed ghosts that lurked About the sea made thereof masts; they fitted Tall ships and goodly, furrowing the deep To harvest merchandise; strong and keen-witted The mariners; oho! the breezes leap Like lovers on them; lo! they fared forth To South, East, West and North, Iceland, the Indies, Sicily, and Spain. . . . Lo! men have heard of all these ships not one, not one for ever more again.
VII
Seeing your naked body in the bed Against the jetty silk, I thought you lay Just as the Milky Way Lies in the unkenned hollows of the sky. One swarthy ray of red Leapt from your hither eye, And straight my dream began To map that heaven—your eye, Aldeboran! I launched the magic boat, and early found The Pirate’s cave and the Enchaunted Ground; The cedared Lebanon, The Wizard’s Grot, the well of spice, The Hanging Gardens of great Babylon:— All these then did I visit in a trice, And even did confirm the Bible tale By playing Jonah to your Jonah’s whale. So, to the stars!
VIII
A poet is at ease In all such voyages: Why, as a boy, I steered Up to the Scorpion and tweaked his tail, Plucked foolish Capricornus by the beard And kissed the Blessed Damozel that leaned upon the golden rail, Drank from the glad rim of the grail Or soothed the squally Twins (for they could weep!) And while I smiled “In Heaven how safe I am!” Found myself in my little bed asleep Having been butted thither by the Ram.
IX
But in the dream of you, my starry sweet, It is my earth I lose six times in seven. I have the Freedom of the City of Heaven; But strange (though fair) are all the stars I meet. The dull familiar and the homely drear Are lost for ever. Being asleep, I fear. Wake! Let me cut the cable of my mind! My harbour lies before, and not behind. Dreams are all lies; those jetty shadows lie When the full moon doth crown the midnight sky; But shadows image truth, and dreams come true, For when I wake my arms are full of you.
X
Another time, through tides from chaos rolled I was upborne by this my scarabee With scales like plates of porphyry and gold And wings like flakes of the green light that pours Through the blue heart of the Hawaian sea. So to the hollow shores We came, and did behold a silver avenue That wound through cypress groves and woods of yew Unto the hills; hideous hyaenas laughed, Mean jackals snarled and screamed, and wild dogs bayed: Bayed at the waning moon that lapsed above Out of all light (had I not been in love, And drunken on the quintessential draught) So that the forest folk were sore afraid. But when I came upon the open space I might perceive my lady’s face, And knew she waned because that I was late. Twin hills like ivory glinted; on their slopes Blue rivers coursed, and many a nightingale Told all its tremulous tale To viewless dryads, or elate Trilled out its bleeding hopes Into the mist of light that hid (I know) Bassarids, Bassarids Dionysus-mad. Then, in that vision glad, I saw twin towers of crimson ruby rise Into the scented snow That fell like dew from the heart-hungry skies. But when I came between the hills, behold The moon’s silver and gold Stood in the zenith, that I lost my guide. There stood I passion-pale Like a lost lamb that seeks the starry fold Within that warm and scented vale Clothed with narcissus, hyacinth, tuberose, Snowdrop and lily, all white, all cream, all gold, With never a blush like dawn’s to flush or fail Upon their garden-close. O wide is the world, wide, wide! Be sure that I was lost, Lost, lost for ever; are there palimpsests Wherein a man might study at great cost His journey thence? O Rose of gramarye, My riddle you shall ree. My head was happy, laid betwixt your breasts.
XI
Another time I passed the holy well And plunged (as Phoebus in the western ocean) Into a forest of fine flame that crowned The holy hill; all was enchanted ground, The flames like scented tendrils of a vine Or sensitive rays that spell Strange curves to match their master-god’s emotion, And ever nearer to the scarlet slash I clomb, where the strange perfumes struck me like a lash And the dread fires scorched up my life. There, O insufferable delight I mock with the weak word of wife, I was sucked down into the crater rim, Into the crimson damask dim Candescent cave of night— O then I mock myself with words! They are like cardinal-coloured birds And honey-coloured doves: Yet one thing mortal serves to name another As mortal as itself. Why must our deathless loves Be stained by the black-hearted mother That called things by dead names? The sunny elf Language shall play with the ethereal flames But never dare approach The central and volcanic fire, The inmost Force, nor, like a glittering army Send forth its scouts to encroach Upon our citadel desire. Ay! though these flaming sentences Eat like strong acid in my vitals, char me, Blast me like lightning, smash me like black seas Towering above the lofty ship Whose masts did menace to the skies, They are but plaisters of cool leaves that dip In pleasant water to the white-hot wise Terrible flames of hell that would devour me, Did not the raptures of thy love embower me In meads Elysian, fields of foamless fire, Nights of invincible desire, Things beyond words, beyond the want of them Beyond the pauses and the ecstasies . . . . Where should my dream get such a diadem Of voiceless thoughts as these?
XII
These dreams reform Themselves into a rainbow to the storm Of simple passion; let me from the string Take many-coloured wing As a swift-thoughted arrow Vertically shot against the sun! I would you were a sow And these my verses were your squealing farrow, That they might suck the milk of your perfection Unto them, that the world’s ear might be won, The world’s heart melted now, The world’s mind drawn from its dejection, By the sure fact that not in idle dream But sole in sense supreme Certainly visible and tangible Were you, O Rose, whose root remotest hell Nourishes, and whose top flowers higher than the Throne Of the Eternal one. Thou shouldst not leave me alone To gaze upon the sun And take the glory of his excellence— Not unto me close curled, And on my body’s beauty crucified In silver spirit clad with gold of sense, But sending forth thy rays life-pearled As a bridegroom squandering his strength upon the bride —Thou art sufficient to redeem the world.
XIII
O! is the secret of the starry deep Nothing but pain and pleasure, grief and joy? Is God a wanton boy To play with us so bitter cheap By such a jewelled light? Be thine the power, Rose of the Stars, in this thy tortured hour When the wee lips that clung to thee are cold, To give the world a light of other gold From that men hoard, from that the suns afford In their implacable cars As they roll on impassive; bid thy Lord (O Rose, Rose of the Stars!) And slave make known thy beauty and thy passion In his imperfect fashion, So that thy wisdom and thy strength are sold In every mart of earth; So that thine eyes enfold The universe in one great look of love Bring this, bring this to birth! And neither hate below, nor hate above, Nor chance, nor force, nor cunning shall deprive Man of thy gift, a love alive With more than men to-day can understand.
XIV
Give me thine hand, Rose of the Stars, and we will soar above Wisdom and Strength and Love, Into the sphere where all delight retires In azure flames and silver-edgéd fires. Now through the veil we shoot Like snaky lightning through a thundercloud Up to the awful precipice-skirted place Where deaf, blind, palsied, mute There sits the leprous God; we laugh aloud Seeing him face to face, Blowing him like a shaken sheaf of snow With a brief gust of wind Over the cliffs of his ensanguine throne; Seating ourselves thereon, as men shall know, Above soul, spirit, heart, thought, being, mind, All—but most irrevocably entwined And irrevocably alone.
XV
There was a boy with O! the face of dawn, The mother-of-pearl that shimmered on his skin. The breasts like golden roses circling red, The limbs like limbs of a young fawn For litheness—O! for innocence of sin His eyes burned wondrous bright, his sun-crowned head Danced with its sweet and sacred hopes, So that he paced the enamelled slopes Laughing upon the laughing lake below, Expectant of some strange experience Worth all the woes of sense, Some drop of nectar worth a world of wine, Some grace of One divine Worth more than all life’s grace, and more than life intense. Was there a wonder if the silken boy Found her a-playing on the bluebell marge And drank from golden vats the wine of joy; Hot, eager, overcoming in her breath, As she would draw him to those large And firm white breasts and mix her liquid life With his in pagan strife? Or with a grace like God, a stealth like love, Pour on him from above Wine from the purple vats of death? Nay! ’tis no wonder—shall they wonder then, These bat-eyed newspaper-besotted men, If thou and I have found the Elixir rare That giveth Life to those whoso drinketh it, The Stone beyond compare, The harmony of the Circle and the Square, All that surpasseth mortal wit Even to imagine? we have found it, Rose, Rose of the Stars, Rose of the utmost snows! Where? Where Love knows.
א
A Labyrinth do I the Paraclete Eidolize in the House of gnathous Rock Starry with scent of dittany of Crete, Erotic with the love-chants of a cock Crowing of her whose gnostic lips are wan, Leylah conceiving by the Lycian!
ב
Black is the midnight when that wintry bird Stands on the snowbank like an ermine tail Blotting the royal robes: he cries a word That gilds the red blood in the blessed Grail; Wherefore the beetle ramps upon the Hill, And argent angels trumpet sour and shrill.
ג
Jinn gnash their wings and lurk upon the West: Like camels they abandon life for love, Sucking green poison from a dugless breast. Such is the echo in these towers, above The incandescent sea that rolls about The soul of God, its ravelin and redoubt.
ד
Drear and devout the dead monks moan and rave Within these cells of this my labyrinth: They couple with the ghuls upon my grave, And on my monument’s marmoreal plinth They rage in amorous rituals unto Pan, Whose leer breeds Thersites and Caliban.
ה
Hour after hour one toils about the maze: Two are embayed in bowers of moss and rose: Three quarrel for the clue their spites erase: Four squat like sun-kissed archipelagoes: Five make an holy Nun (as none who counts) And track Dione to her lustral founts.
ו
Woe to the world! the bull and girl conjoin. The monster guards the grot: the sly goat grins When priest and prelate privately purloin The perfume of our quintessential sins. Woe! when that pizzle, ripe for Hathor’s Cow, Writes the red blush on Pasiphae’s brow!
ז
Zazel, the saturnine, the brooding fiend, Listens and laughs at this ecstatic “woe!” His desart teats from twisted terrors weaned The ghost of Chasmodai: our vials flow With galangal and marjoram and myrrh, As Rhodope rapes life from Lucifer.
ח
Chryselephantine cross! how good you gleam! How gods and goats respire the dark perfume Of oliban, and scent the erotic steam Of myrtle in the cypress groves of gloom That rolls and gathers into shapes of bronze Who dream strange dreams and chant strange orisons.
ט
Temple and Thora, Taro and Throa! These are the goals and gates whereto ye tend, O ribbed red barrows, whose virilia Earn muliebria at the smooth sad end. Alas! ye have not learned with God and me To say your father’s name A-dun-a-i!
י
Ieheshwah hath the tooth between the nail And window in his word: therein is joy. But whoso dons the gilded coat of mail Takes from Damascus dame, and leaves the boy To wander as he will with whips and sighs, And vain hibiscus cloistered in his thighs.
כ
Kabus the nightmare makes me mad for kus When kun and kir are all the k’s I can: I grow Ex Epicuri grege sus: I shave with steel these hairy marks of man: Then Sappho swoops her sweetest on the goal Of scorching blood, and swallows up my soul.
ל
Lola be mine, and Lola rave astrain Who findeth in my labyrinth a pool To give her ganja-gramarye in grain:— The boy is blind, but beautiful, O fool! He cannot see the scars of thy disease Lydia and Lalage divide his fees.
מ
Myrrh be thy music, harping thy perfume, When thou canst sit upon the foursquare stone Shaped like an egg, well hid within the tomb Where Jesus drawls: “Consult that cruel crone Who mutters mantrams to her swart tom-cat, And trims her broomstick toward Ararat!
נ
Nina, the navrant enervating nun, Anoint thee with the lewd laborious oil She gathered of the sow-sweat in the sun And quintessentialized with tearing toil! Let her anoint thee! thou shalt stand as stiff As unicorn confronting hippogriff.
ם
So fly above the hedges that confound Thy clue-shorn chase: is Lampsacus afire With sunset on its marble walls, enwound As an hog’s heart in the cobalt desire? Is there a Tuscan holding to thine eyes A tusky marvel to affright the skies?
ע
Arab and I admit its gusty fear. We nurse the world in our expanded wombs. With ambergris and cedar-oil we rear Colossal children stolen out of tombs. We hide them in our bowels, sooth to say, To show them to the Lord on Judgment Day.
פ
Priapus laughs, and we behold him Pan; Then if I smile, in me Panthea glows; I am a panther, mark the caravan, Devour a child, and plant a royal rose. Then to my rose if Pan is his own Pandar My horn is worth the two of Alexander.
צ
Tzedeq of God that winged magnificence Is called by sylphs. It pours the pregnant pearls Even on the thuribles of gilt incense That smoke within the garlands of its girls. So from mere myrrh mirific murders come, And holy bane from plain olibanum.
ק
Qaiyum thine anguish, with the thorny crown Lashing thy brow, the jackal’s direful din Breaking thy body! Could not eiderdown Serve thee? His kisses cool thee? Is not sin The royal road to sainthood, eremite Whose purple pestle shuns the Dog’s delight?
ר
Rays of Aldeboran invade the coil Of this my labyrinth and point the way. Lick Nina for the consecrated oil! Scrape Jesus for the sacramental clay! See how the fumes of Voodoo curl around Thy Wanga-circle, the enchanted ground.
ש
Shaitan appears. But gloomier clouds of smoke Than hell’s are here, where wand and spell combine The utmost spawn of chaos to invoke As gods within the most supernal shrine. I am the master. Will not God contest The last grim struggle for his Alkahest?
ת
Tangri suffices me, and I am He, The bournless spirit with the sighted feet. Twain pearls and seventy shimmer upon me: My food is myrrh and dittany of Crete. Dolphin and Phoenix round the Maypole tree Dance to the wedding march of El Lutiy.
Explicit Abjad-i-Al’ain
AN ATTACK ON BARBERCRAFT
At last an end of all I hoped and feared! Muttered the hermit through his elfin beard.
Then what art thou? the evil whisper whirred. I doubt me sorely if the hermit heard.
To all God’s questions never a word he said, But simply shook his venerable head.
God sent all plagues; he laughed and heeded not, Till people took him for an idiot.
God sent all joys; he only laughed amain, Till people certified him as insane.
But somehow all his fellow-lunatics Began to imitate his silly tricks.
And stranger still, their prospects so enlarged That one by one the patients were discharged.
God asked him by what right he interfered; He only laughed into his elfin beard.
When God revealed Himself to mortal prayer He gave a fatal opening to Voltaire.
Our hermit had dispensed with Sinai’s thunder, But on the other hand he made no blunder;
He knew (no doubt) that any axiom Would furnish bricks to build some Donkeydom.
But!—all who urged that hermit to confess Caught the infection of his happiness.
I would it were my fate to dree his weird; I think that I will grow an elfin beard.
THE WIZARD WAY
Velvet soft the night-star glowed Over the untrodden road, Through the giant glades of yew Where its ray fell light as dew, Lighting up the shimmering veil Maiden pure and aery frail That the spiders wove to hide Blushes of the sylvan bride Earth, that trembled with delight At the male caress of Night.
Velvet soft the wizard trod To the Sabbath of his God. With his naked feet he made Starry blossoms in the glade, Softly, softly, as he went To the sombre sacrament, Stealthy stepping to the tryst In his gown of amethyst.
Earlier yet his soul had come To the Hill of Martyrdom, Where the charred and crooked stake Like a black envenomed snake By the hangman’s hands is thrust Through the wet and writhing dust, Never black and never dried Heart’s blood of a suicide.
He had plucked the hazel rod From the rude and goatish god, Even as the curved moon’s waning ray Stolen from the King of Day. He had learnt the elvish sign; Given the Token of the Nine: Once to rave, and once to revel, Once to bow before the devil, Once to swing the thurible, Once to kiss the goat of hell, Once to dance the aspen spring, Once to croak, and once to sing, Once to oil the savoury thighs Of the witch with sea-green eyes With the unguents magical. Oh the honey and the gall Of that black enchanter’s lips As he croons to the eclipse, Mingling that most puissant spell Of the giant gods of hell With the four ingredients Of the evil elements; Ambergris from golden spar, Musk of ox from Mongol jar, Civet from a box of jade, Mixed with fat of many a maid Slain by the inchauntments cold Of the witches wild and old.
He had crucified a toad In the basilisk abode, Muttering the Runes averse Mad with many a mocking curse. He had traced the serpent sigil In his ghastly virgin vigil. Sursum cor! the elfin hill, Where the wind blows deadly chill From the world that wails beneath Death’s black throat and lipless teeth There he had stood—his bosom bare— Tracing life upon the Air With the crook and with the flail Lashing forward on the gale, Till its blade that wavereth Like the flickering of Death Sank before his subtle fence To the starless sea of sense.
Now at last the man is come Haply to his halidom. Surely as he waves his rod In a circle on the sod Springs the emerald chaste and clean From the duller paler green. Surely in the circle millions Of immaculate pavilions Flash upon the trembling turf Like the sea-stars in the surf— Millions of bejewelled tents For the warrior sacraments. Vaster, vaster, vaster, vaster, Grows the stature of the master; All the ringed encampment vies With the infinite galaxies. In the midst a cubic stone With the Devil set thereon; ’Hath a lamb's virginal throat; ’Hath the body of a stoat; ’Hath the buttocks of a goat; ’Hath the sanguine face and rod Of a goddess and a god!
Spell by spell and pace by pace! Mystic flashes swing and trace Velvet soft the sigils stepped By the silver-starred adept. Back and front, and to and fro, Soul and body sway and flow In vertiginous caresses To imponderable recesses, Till at last the spell is woven, And the faery veil is cloven That was Sequence, Space, and Stress Of the soul-sick consciousness. “Give thy body to the beasts! Give thy spirit to the priests! Break in twain the hazel rod On the virgin lips of God! Tear the Rosy Cross asunder! Shatter the black bolt of thunder! Suck the swart ensanguine kiss Of the resolute abyss!” Wonder-weft the wizard heard This intolerable word.
’Smote the blasting hazel rod On the scarlet lips of God; Trampled Cross and rosy core; Brake the thunder-tool of Thor; Meek and holy acolyte Of the priestly hells of spite Sleek and shameless catamite Of the beasts that prowl by night!
Like a star that streams from heaven Through the virgin airs light-riven, From the life there shot and fell An admirable miracle. Carved minute and clean, a key Of purest lapis-lazuli More blue than the blind sky that aches (Wreathed with the stars, her torturing snakes) For the dead god’s kiss that never wakes; Shot with golden specks of fire Like a virgin with desire. Look, the levers! fern-frail fronds Of fantastic diamonds, Glimmering with ethereal azure In each exquisite embrasure. On the shaft the letters laced, As if dryads lunar-chaste With the satyrs were embraced, Spelled the secret of the key: Sic pervenias. And he Went his wizard way, inweaving Dreams of things beyond believing.
When he will, the weary world Of the senses closely curled Like a serpent round his heart Shakes herself and stands apart. So the heart’s blood flames expanding, Strenuous, urgent, and commanding; And the key unlocks the door Where his love lies evermore.
She is of the faery blood; All smaragdine flows its flood. Glowing in the amber sky To ensorcelled porphyry. She hath eyes of glittering flake Like a cold grey water-snake. She hath naked breasts of amber Jetting wine in her bed-chamber Whereof whoso stoops and drinks Rees the riddle of the Sphinx.
She hath naked limbs of amber Whereupon her children clamber. She hath five navels rosy-red From the five wounds of God that bled; Each wound that mothered her still bleeding, And on that blood her babes art feeding. Oh! like a rose-winged pelican She hath bred blessed babes to Pan! Oh! like a lion-hued nightingale She hath torn her breast on thorns to avail The barren rose-tree to renew Her life with that disastrous dew, Building the rose o’ the world alight With music out of the pale moonlight! O She is like the river of blood That broke from the lips of the bastard god, When he saw the sacred mother smile On the ibis that flew up the foam of Nile Bearing the limbs unblessed, unborn, That the lurking beast of Nile had torn! So (for the world is weary) I These dreadful souls of sense lay by. I sacrifice these impure shoon To the cold ray of the waning moon. I take the forked hazel staff, And the rose of no terrene graff, And the lamp of no olive oil With heart’s blood that alone may boil. With naked breast and feet unshod I follow the wizard way to God
Wherever he leads my foot shall follow; Over the height, into the hollow, Up to the caves of pure cold breath, Down to the deeps of foul hot death, Across the seas, through the fires, Past the palace of desires; Where he will, whether he will or no, If I go, I care not whither I go.
For in me is the taint of the faery blood. Fast, fast, its emerald flood Leaps within me, violent rude Like a bestial faun’s beatitude. In me the faery blood runs hard: My sires were a druid, a devil, a bard, A beast, a wizard, a snake and a satyr; For—as my mother said—what does it matter? She was a fay, pure of the faery; Queen Morgan’s daughter by an aery Demon that came to Orkney once To pay the Beetle his orisons.
So, it is I that writhe with the twitch Of the faery blood, and the wizard itch To attain a matter one may not utter Rather than sink in the greasy splutter Of Britons munching their bread and butter; Ailing boys and coarse-grained girls Grown to sloppy women and brutal churls. So, I am off with staff in hand To the endless light of the nameless land.
Darkness spreads its sombre streams, Blotting out the elfin dreams. I might haply be afraid, Were it not that the Feather-maid Leads me softly by the hand, Whispers me to understand. Now (when through the world of weeping Light at last starrily creeping Steals upon my babe-new sight, Light—O Light that is not light!) On my mouth the lips of her Like a stone on my sepulchre Seal my speech with ecstasy, Till a babe is born of me That is silent more than I; For its inarticulate cry Hushes as its mouth is pressed To the pearl, her honey breast; While its breath divinely ripples The rose-petals of her nipples, And the jetted milk he laps From the soft delicious paps, Sweeter than the bee-sweet showers In the chalice of the flowers, More intoxicating than All the purple grapes of Pan.
Ah! my proper lips are stilled. Only, all the world is filled With the echo, that drips over Like the honey from the clover. Passion, penitence, and pain Seek their mother’s womb again, And are born the triple treasure, Peace and purity and pleasure.
——Hush, my child, and come aloft Where the stars are velvet soft!
WITH A GIFT TO MY LADY
Had I these wings, I would not need to write. I would be with you; then, a young male swan, I would find happiness afloat upon The ripples of your muscular body, bright As mother-of-pearl may be in God’s own sight When He would found His whole new heaven thereon! Thence, would my body were One Eye, to con Your face, the rosy lotus of delight!
I would dip deep my beak into the flower And pluck your tongue, its ruby heart, and shower All my life’s love upon you, swift as Spring’s! And I would lift you on my pinions To light and heat more splendid than the sun’s, Mistress!—Woe’s me! for I have not these wings.
THE GARDEN OF JANUS
I
The cloud my bed is tinged with blood and foam. The vault yet blazes with the sun Writhing above the West, brave hippodrome Whose gladiators shock and shun As the blue night devours them, crested comb Of sleep’s dead sea That eats the shores of life, rings round eternity!
II
So, he is gone whose giant sword shed flame Into my bowels; my blood’s bewitched; My brain’s afloat with ecstasy of shame. That tearing pain is gone, enriched By his life-spasm; but he being gone, the same Myself is gone Sucked by the dragon down below death’s horizon.
III
I woke from this. I lay upon the lawn; They had thrown roses on the moss With all their thorns; we came there at the dawn, My lord and I; God sailed across The sky in ’s galleon of amber, drawn By singing winds While we wove garlands of the flowers of our minds.
IV
All day my lover deigned to murder me, Linking his kisses in a chain About my neck; demon-embroidery! Bruises like far-off mountains stain The valley of my body of ivory! Then last came sleep. I wake, and he is gone; what should I do but weep?
V
Nay, for I wept enough—more sacred tears!— When first he pinned me, gripped My flesh, and as a stallion that rears Sprang, hero-thewed and satyr-lipped; Crushed, as a grape between his teeth, my fears; Sucked out my life And stamped me with the shame, the monstrous word of wife.
VI
I will not weep; nay, I will follow him. Perchance he is not far, Bathing his limbs in some delicious dim Depth, where the evening star May kiss his mouth, or by the black sky’s rim He makes his prayer To the great serpent that is coiled in rapture there.
VII
I rose to seek him. First my footsteps faint Pressed the starred moss; but soon I wandered, like some sweet sequestered saint, Into the wood, my mind. The moon Was staggered by the trees; with fierce constraint Hardly one ray Pierced to the ragged earth about their roots that lay.
VIII
I wandered, crying on my Lord. I wandered Eagerly seeking everywhere. The stores of life that on my lips he squandered Grew into shrill cries of despair, Until the dryads frightened and dumfoundered Fled into space— Like to a demon-king’s was grown my maiden face!
IX
At last I came unto the well, my soul. In that still glass, I saw no sign Of him, and yet—what visions there uproll To cloud that mirror-soul of mine? Above my head there screams a flying scroll Whose word burnt through My being as when stars drop in black disastrous dew.
X
For in that scroll was written how the globe Of space became; of how the light Broke in that space and wrapped it in a robe Of glory; of how One most white Withdrew that Whole, and hid it in the lobe Of his right Ear, So that the Universe one dewdrop did appear.
XI
Yea! and the end revealed a word, a spell, An incantation, a device Whereby the Eye of the Most Terrible Wakes from Its wilderness of ice To flame, whereby the very core of hell Bursts from its rind, Sweeping the world away into the blank of mind.
XII
So then I saw my fault; I plunged within The well, and brake the images That I had made, as I must make—Men spin The webs that snare them—while the knees Bend to the tyrant God, or unto Sin The lecher sunder! Ah! came that undulant light from over or from under?
XIII
It matters not. Come, change! Come, woe! Come, mask! Drive Light, Life, Love into the deep! In vain we labour at the loathsome task Not knowing if we wake or sleep; But in the end we lift the plumèd casque Of the dead warrior; Find no chaste corpse therein, but a soft-smiling whore.
XIV
Then I returned into myself, and took All in my arms, God’s universe: Crushed its black juice out, while His anger shook His dumbness pregnant with a curse. I made me ink, and in a little book I wrote one word That God himself, the adder of Thought, had never heard.
XV
It detonated. Nature, God, mankind Like sulphur, nitre, charcoal, once Blended, in one annihilation blind Were rent into a myriad of suns. Yea! all the mighty fabric of a Mind Stood in the abyss, Belching a Law for That more awful than for This.
XVI
Vain was the toil. So then I left the wood And came unto the still black sea, That oily monster of beatitude! (Hath Thee for Me, and Me for Thee!) There as I stood, a mask of solitude Hiding a face Wried as a satyr’s, rolled that ocean into space.
XVII
Then did I build an altar on the shore Of oyster-shells, and ringed it round With star-fish. Thither a green flame I bore Of phosphor foam, and strewed the ground With dew-drops, children of my wand, whose core Was trembling steel Electric that made spin the universal Wheel.
XVIII
With that a goat came running from the cave That lurked below the tall white cliff. Thy name! cried I. The answer that he gave Was but one tempest-whisper—“If!” Ah, then! his tongue to his black palate clave; For on Soul’s curtain Is written this one certainty that naught is certain!
XIX
So then I caught that goat up in a kiss, And cried Io Pan! Io Pan! Io Pan! Then all this body’s wealth of ambergris (Narcissus-scented flesh of man!) I burnt before him in the sacrifice; For he was sure— Being the Doubt of Things, the one thing to endure!
XX
Wherefore, when madness took him at the end, He, doubt-goat, slew the goat of doubt; And that which inward did for ever tend Came at the last to have come out; And I who had the World and God to friend Found all three foes! Drowned in that sea of changes, vacancies, and woes!
XXI
Yet all that Sea was swallowed up therein; So they were not, and it was not. As who should sweat his soul out through the skin And find (sad fool!) he had begot All that without him that he had left in And in himself All he had taken out thereof, a mocking elf!
XXII
But now that all was gone, great Pan appeared. Him then I strove to woo, to win Kissing his curled lips, playing with his beard, Setting his brain a-shake, a-spin, By that strong wand, and muttering of the weird That only I Knew of all souls alive or dead beneath the sky.
XXIII
So still I conquered, and the vision passed. Yet still was beaten for I knew Myself was He, Himself, the first and last; And as an unicorn drinks dew From under oak-leaves, so my strength was cast Into the mire; For all I did was dream, and all I dreamt desire.
XXIV
More; in this journey I had clean forgotten The quest, my lover. But the tomb Of all these thoughts, the rancid and the rotten Proved in the end to be my womb Wherein my Lord and lover had begotten A little child To drive me, laughing lion, into the wanton wild!
XXV
This child hath not one hair upon his head, But he hath wings instead of ears. No eyes hath he, but all his light is shed Within him on the ordered spheres Of nature that he hideth; and in stead Of mouth he hath One minute point of jet; silence, the lightning path!
XXVI
Also his nostrils are shut up; for he Hath not the need of any breath; Nor can the curtain of eternity Cover that head with life or death So all his body, a slim almond tree, Knoweth nor bough Nor branch nor twig nor bud, from never until now.
XXVII
This thought I bred within my bowels, I am. I am in him, as he in me; And like a satyr ravishing a lamb So either seems, or as the sea Swallows the whale that swallows it, the ram Beats its own head Upon the city walls, that fall as it falls dead.
XXVIII
Come, let me back unto the lilied lawn! Pile me the roses and the thorns Upon this bed from which he hath withdrawn! He may return. A million morns May follow that first dire dæmonic dawn When he did split My spirit with his lightnings and enveloped it!
XXIX
So I am stretched out naked to the knife, My whole soul twitching with the stress Of the expected yet surprising strife, A martyrdom of blessedness. Though Death came, I could kiss him into life; Though Life came, I Could kiss him into death, and yet nor live nor die!
XXX
Yet I that am the babe, the sire, the dam, Am also none of these at all; For now that cosmic chaos of I AM Bursts like a bubble. Mystical The night comes down, a soaring wedge of flame Woven therein To be a sign to them who yet have never been.
XXXI
The universe I measured with my rod. The blacks were balanced with the whites; Satan dropped down even as up soared God; Whores prayed and danced with anchorites. So in my book the even matched the odd: No word I wrote Therein, but sealed it with the signet of the goat.
XXXII
This also I seal up. Read thou herein Whose eyes are blind! Thou may’st behold Within the wheel (that alway seems to spin All ways) a point of static gold. Then may’st thou out therewith, and fit it in That extreme sphere Whose boundless farness makes it infinitely near.
She used to lie, superbly bare Wrapped in her harvest flame of hair, And shooting from her steel-grey eyes Inexorable destinies: Mute oracles—mysterious— A soul in a sarcophagus! For I, through all my life astrain, Through all the pulsing of my brain, Through all the wisdom I had won From this one and the other one Saw nothing. Nothing. Had I known And loved some Sphinx of steel or stone While countless chiliads rolled, may be I had not guessed her mystery.
So there she lay, regarding me. And I?—I gave the riddle up. I drank the wine, admired the cup; As I suppose a wise man does Unless he be the Man of Uz To scrape with shards a sore that grows The more he irks it. I suppose All men are fools who seek the truth At such a price as joy and youth. . . . So there she used to lie. May be Correggio’s Antiope Best paints you how she lay. And I Loved her, and passed the matter by; Ending at last, one may dare say, In thinking that those eyes of grey Meant naught, suspected naught, were blind, Expressed the vacancy behind.
So life went on. One winter day So silent and so still she lay That I took cold, regarding her. I rose, I wrapped myself in fur; Then came to her, my thought untold Being that she, too, might be cold. I laid my hand upon her breast. Cold! Icy cold! Ah you have guessed. Right. She was dead, quite dead. And so You see, friend, I shall never know. She kept her secret. —Leave me alone! Or—I shall hardly keep my own!
Hear me, Lord of the Stars! For thee I have worshipped ever With stains and sorrows and scars, With joyful, joyful endeavour. Hear me, O lilywhite goat! O crisp as a thicket of thorns, With a collar of gold for Thy throat A scarlet bow for Thy horns!
Here, in the dusty air, I build Thee a shrine to yew. All green is the garland I wear, But I feed it with blood for dew! After the orange bars That ribbed the green west dying Are dead, O Lord of the Stars, I come to Thee, come to Thee crying.
The ambrosial moon that arose With breasts slow heaving in splendour Drops wine from her infinite snows Ineffably, utterly tender. O moon! ambrosial moon! Arise on my desert of sorrow That the magical eyes of me swoon With lust of rain to-morrow!
Ages and ages ago I stood on the bank of a river— Holy and holy and holy, I know, For ever and ever and ever! A priest in the mystical shrine, I muttered a redeless rune, Till the waters were redder than wine In the blush of the harlot moon.
I and my brother priests Worshipped a wonderful woman With a body lithe as a beast’s, Subtly, horribly human. Deep in the pit of her eyes I saw the image of death, And I drew the water of sighs From the well of her lullaby breath.
She sitteth veiled for ever Brooding over the waste. She hath stirred or spoken never. She is fiercely, manly chaste! What madness made me awake From the silence of utmost eld The grey cold slime of the snake That her poisonous body held?
By night I ravished a maid From her father’s camp to the cave. I bared the beautiful blade; I dipped her thrice i’ the wave; I slit her throat as a lamb’s, That the fount of blood leapt high With my clamorous dithyrambs Like a stain on the shield of the sky.
With blood and censer and song I rent the mysterious veil: My eyes gaze long and long On the deep of that blissful bale. My cold grey kisses awake From the silence of utmost eld The grey cold slime of the snake That her beautiful body held.
But—God! I was not content With the blasphemous secret of years, The veil is hardly rent While the eyes rain stones for tears. So I clung to the lips and laughter As the storms of death abated, The storms of the grievous graft By the swing of her soul unsated.
Wherefore reborn as I am By a stream profane and foul, In the reign of a Tortured Lamb, In the realm of a sexless Owl, I am set apart from the rest By meed of the mystic rune That reads in peril and pest The ambrosial moon—the moon!
For under the tawny star That shines in the Bull above I can rein the riotous car Of galloping, galloping Love; And straight to the steady ray Of the Lion-heart Lord I career, Pointing my flaming way With the spasm of night for a spear!
O moon! O secret sweet! Chalcedony clouds of caresses About the flame of our feet, The night of our terrible tresses! It is a wonder, then If the people are mad with blindness, And nothing is stranger to men Than silence, and wisdom, and kindness?
Nay! let him fashion an arrow Whose heart is sober and stout! Let him pierce his God to the marrow! Let the soul of his God flow out! Whether a snake or a sun In his horoscope Heaven hath cast, It is nothing; every one Shall win to the moon at last.
The mage hath wrought by his art A billion shapes in the sun. Look through to the heart of his heart, And the many are shapes of one! An end to the art of the mage, And the cold grey blank of the prison! An end to the adamant age! The ambrosial moon is arisen.
I have bought a lilywhite goat For the price of a crown of thorns, A collar of gold for its throat, A scarlet bow for its horns. I have bought a lark in the lift For the price of a butt of sherry: With these, and God for a gift, It needs no wine to be merry!
I have bought for a wafer of bread A garden of poppies and clover; For a water bitter and dead A foam of fire flowing over. From the Lamb and his prison fare And the Owl’s blind stupor arise! Be ye wise, and strong, and fair And the nectar afloat in your eyes!
Arise, O ambrosial moon, By the strong immemorial spell, By the subtle veridical rune That is mighty in heaven and hell! Drip thy mystical dews On the tongues of the tender fauns In the shade of initiate yews Remote from the desert dawns!
Satyrs and Fauns, I call. Bring your beauty to man! I am the mate for ye all; I am the passionate Pan. Come, O come to the dance Leaping with wonderful whips, Life on the stroke of a glance, Death in the stroke of the lips!
I am hidden beyond Shed in a secret sinew Smitten through by the fond Folly of wisdom in you! Come, while the moon (the moon!) Sheds her ambrosial splendour, Reels in the redeless rune, Ineffably, utterly tender!
Hark! the appealing cry Of deadly hurt in the hollow:— Hyacinth! Hyacinth! Ay! Smitten to death by Apollo. Swift, O maiden moon, Send they ray-dews after; Turn the dolorous tune To soft ambiguous laughter!
Mourn, O Maenads, mourn! Surely your comfort is over. All we laugh at you lorn. Ours are the poppies and clover! O that mouth and eyes, Mischievous, male, alluring! O that twitch of the thighs Dorian past enduring!
Where is wisdom now? Where the sage and his doubt? Surely the sweat of the brow Hath driven the demon out. Surely the scented sleep That crowns the equal war Is wiser than only to weep— To weep for evermore!
Now, at the crown of the year, The decadent days of October, I come to thee, God, without fear; Pious, chaste, and sober, I solemnly sacrifice This first-fruit flower of wine For a vehicle of thy vice As I am Thine to be mine.
For five in the year gone by I pray Thee give to me one; A lover stronger than I, A moon to swallow the sun! May he be like a lilywhite goat Crisp as a thicket of thorns, With a collar of gold for his throat, A scarlet bow for his horns!
THE HAWK AND THE BABE
I that am an hawk of gold Proud in adamantine poise On the pillars of torquoise, See, beyond the starry fold Where a darkling orb is rolled.
There, beneath a grove of yew, Plays a babe. Should I despise Such a foam of gold, and eyes Burning berylline, so blue That the sun seems peeping through?
Did I swoop, were Heaven amazed? With my beak I strike but once; Out there leap a million suns. Through the universe that blazed Screams their light, and death is dazed.
In my womb the babe may leap; Seek him not within mine eye! Nor demand thou of me why I should plunge from crystal steep Like a plummet to the deep!
See yon solitary star! What a world of blackness wraps Round it! Unimagined gaps! Let it be! Content thy car With the voyage to things that are!
Nor, an thou perchance behold How I plunge and batten on Earth’s exenterate carrion, Deem torquoise match midden-mould Or deny the Hawk of Gold!
THE DUELLISTS
When Tantalus talked, Jove was angered, He cursed, He Plunged him in Hades. In torture immersed, he Secretly laughed at the wrath of the Gods; For, it chanced, he was not at all hungry or thirsty.
So now, are you sure that you know how to use me? It is certain the game is to win or to lose me? It is you that stake all—I shall win at the odds! All I risk is one thing—will you bore or amuse me?
The god in the garden am I with my gross Worn mouth, whose indulgence hath made it morose. I paw your soft flesh, and you waken a mood To lip you, to strip you, to study you close.
You are cunning, I know—you stand out for your price! But to cheat you is all I have left for a vice. Then learn! if you try to backgammon the devil The devil is sure to have loaded the dice.
Just this! you allow, you forbid, you excite me As you think just enough to enslave me; you slight me As you think may just pique me; a temperance revel! As if such a red little beetle could bite me!
I see, and I laugh in my sleeve at, the game. I have played it myself—the rules are the same. But it cannot be played on an expert, my pretty! You forget that the Jinn are the children of flame!
Without and beyond and above I abide. Every move I foresee; I foretell every tide, The eclipse and the comet, the oiled and the gritty, I know it by heart—and the balance beside!
Come close! let me suck out your lips as in languor! Stand off! while I cringe at your towering anger! I’ll grip you and shake you and weep at your knees— Mere flames of the foil-play, its clatter and clangour!
Your one joy—your pride in your cleverness, maybe! My one joy—you think you are gulling a gaby, And at last, when you strike to the heart—if you please! I riposte with the lightning-flash—“Pens’-tu, mon Bébé?”
You fool—I will ruin you, turn you adrift, Kick you and spit—you are done! you may shift For yourself as girls do—on the streets, on the quays, Till no sot will touch you for a crust or a gift.
And yet in a sense you have won—for you played All the beauty and passion and wit of a maid. You are damned: that is great! you drained life to the lees! And I—I shall yawn at the end, I’m afraid.
When Christ was in hell, Satan came—how he sneered! “How’s this for a God” and he laughed at His beard: “After Heaven? and Palestine?”—meant to offend. How mild the reply of the Saviour appeared!
“Between heaven and hell it were easy to choose: These ashes are scarce worth celestial dews. But at least—if you must have it! Satan, my friend, Your hell may be hot—but I do bar the Jews!”
ATHOR AND ASAR
On the black night, beneath the winter moon, I clothed me in the limbs of Clodia, Swooning my soul out into her red throat, So that the glimmer of our skins, the tune Of our ripe rhythm, seeded the hideous play Of death-worms crawling on a corpse, afloat With life that takes its thirst Only from things accurst.
Closer than Clodia’s clasp, Death had me down To his black heart, and fed upon my breath, So that we seemed a stillness—whiter than The stars, more silent than the stars, a crown Of stars! For in the icy kiss of death I found that God that is denied to man So long as love and thought And life avail him aught.
AFTER JUDGMENT
So! Thou has given Thy judgment, God! And I am evermore accurst, Cast to the blackness of the abode By Thee—O Thou Who made me first!
Thou Who hast made me, tortured me, Mocked me with life, mocked me with death, Mocked me with love—O misery Of each god’s death, of each slave’s breath!
Yea, for that Thou didst give me her— Indeed my Dorothy! the sun That fires my life, the spell to stir My soul’s enchantments every one:
For this I curse Thee! she was fair As day and brighter than the moon And all the gold stung in her hair; And all the dawn of May—of June!—
Kindled her cheeks; her eyes were blue As all Thy skies, as all Thy seas. Her mouth—Oh God! her mouth that slew Imagination’s ecstasies!
For while I praised the pearl-clear skin, The bright lithe body’s supple growth, By God! I could not even begin To say one word about her mouth!
God! hadst Thou given me that one word, I now might praise Thee, though Thou damn. But oh! not ever a soul hath heard Its echo, O Thou great I Am!
Lo! Thou hast made the winds, the stars, The sun, the moon, the great grave earth; Thou has touched the swaying nenuphars With music, and made godly mirth
With corn and wine; Thou hast made Thee man; Thou hast loved and suffered, died and risen; But—hath Thy mouth grown white and wan, Sucked out into that strange sweet prison
Nay, Thou hast never kissed the mouth Of Dorothy! as I! as I! Thou hast never felt its eager growth Upon my Lesbian ecstasy.
Therefore I curse Thee not, accurst Who art in that one flower foregone— And I the last match Thee the first When that red mouth I fasten on.
Farewell! O God, in endless bliss Crowned, with Thine angels singing by: I go to hell, with her last kiss Yet tingling in my memory.
Nay, start not from Thy throne! I go At Thy black damning to the deep. Thou canst not follow me! I know This thing I had, and this I keep.
God! I have loved. I love! I love, And shall love through Thine ageless hell. Thou hast the kingdom of the Above, And I, her memory. Fare Thee well!
To Thine I Am—supreme exclaim, The total of all that may be said!— I answer from the abyss of flame: Dorothy! and her mouth was red.
THE FIVE ADORATIONS
I praise Thee, God, whose rays upstart beneath the Bright and Morning Star: Nowit asali fardh salat assobhi allahu akbar.
I praise Thee, God, the fierce and swart; at noon Thou ridest forth to war! Nowit asali fardh salat assohri allahu akbar.
I praise Thee, God, whose arrows dart their royal radiance o’er the scar: Nowit asali fardh salat asasri allahu akbar.
I praise Thee, God, whose fires depart, who drivest down the sky thy car: Nowit asali fardh salat al maghrab allahu akbar.
I praise Thee, God, whose purple heart is hidden in the abyss afar: Nowit asali fardh salat al asha allahu akbar.
(His thought.) From gloomy London oversea My lady sends a letter. My credit’s gone: the Deity May write me down a debtor, For I had thought that I was free— I find I have a fetter!
(Her thought.) Yea; must some god announce afresh No more they are twain; they are one flesh?”
For here I sit and laugh and smoke And play with youth and pleasure; Life is a dream, and death a joke, And love a thing of leisure— The dance is done, the spell is broke, And marred the merry measure!
Yea; my small kiss is somehow worth The love of all the boys on earth!
The shy sweet smiles, the tender eyes And bodies slim that woo me; The sobs, the sighs, the throbs, the cries Of love are nothing to me. My lady’s magic madness flies Like poison through and through me!
Yea, love; my echo is as loud As all the cries of all the crowd.
The shaft of love
she shot in May Yea; in the night thou lackest me. And I? Ah surely I lack thee!
I must remember how we stood And let mad Paris pass us (Holding one moment to be good, For all the years surpass us.) And touched in our beatitude The peak of Mount Parnassus.
Yea; we did well to break the bars, And dwell one moment with the stars!
We played the ancient Comedy That Pan taught to the Satyrs. We slew the victim rightfully: We tore his soul to tatters, Still laughing through the tragedy— We knew that nothing matters!
Yea; fitted that strange play of Pan For Gods and fiends; but not for man!
Unless—unless—unless—unless Our priestly hands were steaming With other life (sweet murderess!) That his that lay there screaming Between our knives—Or blood! confess The truth; or am I dreaming?
Yea; floating on that cold pale flood Were two red stars of our own blood.
We left our laugh, a smouldering coal Upon his naked middle: We ravelled out his love; we stole His heart-strings for our fiddle: Strange tortured music from his soul We wrung, a writhing riddle!
Yea: our mouths took a subtle curve As we devoured him nerve by nerve.
We danced, obscenely delicate, The dance of cup and thyrsus; We made him love, we made him hate, We made him bless and curse us Yea, O my darling, we were Fate. Then how should Fate reverse us?
Yea, love; how cruelly we played With the poor worm that we had made!
It cannot be (it cannot be!) That we ourselves are taken In the sweet snare, my Dorothy! Did Love, true love, awaken? And, even so, dear, why should we Be wildly wit-forsaken?
Yea; for we digged a wanton pit. Ourselves are fallen into it.
Our dance grew fierce—self-stirred, self-willed! And Bacchus shewed his forehead Jutting sharp horns; his grape distilled A liquor harsh and florid. Our cool sweet kisses throbbed and thrilled From temperate to torrid.
Yea; the new wine burns up our brain. Like molten gold our kisses rain.
The month of love had curled our lips In tense perverted fancies: Our eyes were sunk in black eclipse To rise in glittering trances: Our belly-muscles tight as whips y dint of Arab dances!
Yea; all our love is glittering steel Sharpened on torture’s aching wheel.
My Dorothy! my Dorothy! Our mouths were wried and bleeding. Love’s eucharistic mystery! Their suckling lips were feeding At the black breasts of ecstasy, Of ecstasy exceeding!
Yea; at the paps of Isis we Drained starry milk of ecstasy.
O thou close-fitted to my soul, Close-fitted to my skin, Moving as one delicious whole Without us and within! How have we lost the iron control That curbed and spurred our sin?
Yea; like one snake’s death-spasm we were. How taken in the serpent-snare?
Indeed, indeed, blind fools we passed From light and light’s dominion To some black cavern of the vast On some demonic pinion. And here we lie—discrowned at last— A monarch grown a minion.
Yea; we are come from the bright God To some most desolate abode.
Or is it crowned, thrice crowned, we are? Crowned with long thorns sharp-gleaming, So that bright blood jets out afar From starry brains a-streaming? Yea! in our night there shines a star Beyond our dearest dreaming.
Yea; there is born a fearful light Proceeding from the Infinite.
However that may be, ’tis clear What duty bids endeavour: To find you out in London, dear,— A ‘now’ is worth a ‘never’!— To make to-day a heaven of cheer, And make to-day ‘ for ever ’!
Yea; though we know how springs run dry, We’ll trust our future, you and I.
Ah, madman! was there ever yet A love that lived a lustre That’s the last folly, to forget, To cling to her, to trust her! She’s but one star—supremely set, I grant!—but in a cluster!
Yea; we may tire; the sea holds yet More fish than ever came to net!
THE SWIMMER
Father of light! Through the black seas I swim To thine arising Disk. Seven waves suppress Mine head beneath their arcane bitterness; Nor on their curling summits shines one dim Foam-flake made lustrous by the light of him To whom I strive. O blank, black wilderness Of iron water! O this stormy stress Of strength that strains toward thine auroral rim!
Caught up on the wild crest, thine orb I glimpse; Thrust in the trough, the salt wave chokes and blinds. Shrill shrieks the wind, the voice of myriad imps; And mine own mockery might match the wind’s Save that—I struggle vainly, that is true; But—thou art rising, and the sea burns blue!
O thou who art throned by the well That feeds the celestial streams! O daughter of heaven and hell! O mother of magical dreams! O sister of me as I sit At thy feet by the mystical well And dream with the web of my wit Of the marriage of heaven and hell!
O thou who art mad with the Muse That delights in the beauty of form! O desire of the dream of the dews! O Valkyrie astride of the storm! I am thine as we ride on the blast To exult in the mystical Muse, As there drip on the desert at last The immaculate Delian dews.
I am thine, I am thine, I am thine— How it slashes the skies as a sword! How it blinds us and burns us with wine Of the dread Dionysian Lord! Evoe! Evoe! Evoe! Iacche! thy chrism of wine! Evoe! Evoe! Evoe! I am thine! I am thine! I am thine!
THE GOD AND THE GIRL
(Imitated from the Greek of Misander)
There was a God (well-skilled of touch and tongue) For all his wisdom that was yet babe-young.
He took the gilded dung called womanhood, And fed it daily with his heart’s best blood.
With sun and moon he worked by day and night, Wedding the greater and the lesser light.
So sought he to excite that leprous mould Even to the pure, the vegetable gold.
He licked it over with his silver tongue Sang golden songs to the disdainful dung.
Regenerating starlight of the vault He called; and sulphur, mercury, and salt.
Long years he laboured at the cucurbite: Long years he thrilled the alembic with his light.
Long years he travailed at the athanor: Inert the dung was as it was before.
Yet the God smiled; for in his heart there grew Nursed at dawn’s breast, and watered by its dew,
That seed that is not bought and is not sold Of veritable, vegetable gold.
Whereat he marvelled. In Eternity There only lived one wiser God than he.
He posed his ‘Why?’. “Young God!” He made retort; “Know, the first matter of the Work is naught.
“Know, the pure gold is naught: for all decays. It is the Working of the Work that pays!
“More, thou mistakest in thy mind of mist Matter for man, and dung for alchemist.
“Woman, for all thy skill of touch and tongue, Remains, poor poet! only gilded dung.
“But thou, First Matter of the Work that art, Defiled by contact with her hemlock heart,
“Dost blacken to the Dragon of the Sages Whence grows the Gold. For her, throughout the ages,
“As it was ever, is, and ever shall be—on Earth everywhere—especially in Albion—
“World without end, Amen, I see no germ Of life to make such dung evolve a worm.
“Use her, a poisonous purge that irritates The clogged-up bowel till it evacuates;
“For so it may be thou shalt ease thy brain. But dung she is, and dung she must remain.”
Thus then with proud humility the younger Answered that holy ancient Wisdom-monger:
“The Way grows clear as crystal to my ken. Let me to teach this alchemy to men.”
“Do! ” answered He, “ and learn. The race shall rage Through to the blackness of the Dragon-stage:
“Few may pass on.” The younger God essayed The scheme—and a nice mess of it he made!
So that—or trousers, petticoats, or tights Hide what makes honest men turn sodomites.
Hence our joints ache, and life is out of joint— All ways we turn we stumble over coynte,
Slip in the slime, and sicken at the stench Of English widow, wanton, wife, and wench.
And as the fairest cloak hides foulest skin Hence thou—O snare that I am taken in,
Delicious Doris! Luckily for me I know the whole theurgic alchemy
And breed a boon (where God begat a curse) From thee, best coynte of His brave universe!
ROSEMARY
“There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; Pray you, love, remember!”—Hamlet.
Amid the grandeur of my melancholy Lackeyed by spectres of my sombre past, I sit and smile at all the shapes of folly
That I evoke—save One, that looms at last Towering above these ten tremendous years. I see Him, sacred, single in the vast,
A Man of Sorrows, grey with useless tears; A Man of Glory, with His aureole Radiant gossamer, a mist of spears
Storming the sky, His heart one crimson coal To burn all lesser gods, to gild the shame Of this my life’s long infamy, the soul
(Abased for Him) in Him one flower of flame— Mine Aceldama one white lily-bloom Availing me above all wealth and fame
Unto the latter things, the destined doom, Ten years ago! how blind and black the abyss! How swept the springtide from the winter’s womb
At the sharp summons of the swift strong kiss That rapt me up from the unfriendly earth Into the star-abodes of Salmacis,
Bringing the soul that slept to sudden birth. O frenzy of flame that swept across the world In orgiastic opulence of mirth,
And left me ever in His arms close curled, Never, O never! to shrink back again, But (through all ruinous time violently hurled)
Never to lose the stigma of that pain, The martyr’s crown of shameful spines that weighs Even now upon these brows, that bear in vain
Fantastic myrtles and deceitful bays And vine-leaves withering even ere they clung. For in His love, His love beyond all praise,
I am still beautiful, still wise, still young. Nay, in the nuptial of that fruitful night Of fruitless joy unmeasured and unsung
There was no seed of sorrow. O my light, My love, my lord, accept the piteous plaint Of me, the little wayward wanton wight,
Whose wickedness was never fain to faint, Through these dull years still cherishing the spark Of Thy dear godhead in him—happy saint!
Who hath Thy light within him in the dark Ready to burst again to ruddier dawn An Thou shouldst travel in Thine holy bark
To drip Thy dews upon the thirsty lawn, And wake to song beatified the bird. But art Thou living, Lord, or far withdrawn
Into the shrines of solitude unstirred? O Pan! have pity on the trembling faun! In all Thy silence is there not one word?
A vision of flushed faces, shining limbs, The Madness of the music that entrances All life in its delirium of dances! The white world glitters in the void, and swims Through infinite seas of transcendental trances. Yea! all the hoarded seed of all my fancies Bursts in a shower of suns! The wine-cup brims And bubbles over; I drink deep the hymns Of sorceries, of spells, of necromancies And all my spirit shudders; dew bedims My sight—these girls and their alluring glances! Their eyes that burn like dawn’s lascivious lances Waking all earth to love—to love! Life skims The cream of joy. If God could see what man sees, (Intoxicating Nellies, Mauds, and Nances!) I see Him leave the sapphirine expanses, The choir serene and the celestial air To swoon into their sacramental hair!
DISAPPOINTMENT
(AN ESSAY IN TACTICS)
“A female eunuch-a stale courtesan With a Jew’s hook, fat lips, and goggle eyes Wrinkled with grime and lust—so any man May maul you; there’s a scarcity of vice! A woman’s soul is in her ovaries; Cut those, that flies. O salt and shallow pan Of verminous moisture!—bathe in thee, forsooth? Age and consummate pox, avoid my youth!”
I would have loved you—so I love to love— Wrapped you in beauty! Lucid gauze of rime Had made your limbs go glimmering down through time, A gracious ghost; the soiled and draggled dove Of Venus should be spurned, and you, my swan, Superbly floated on the giant stream Of fame, its crown and culmination, dream Most inaccessible, meditated on In vain by the world’s greatest lovers. Yet Your lazy lewdness happens to forget
My boy’s lust—all the mighty building’s glamour Dislimns—the shrine’s a stye. Who dares to blight My dreams I damn. You would not throw—last night— Your carrion lump of lechery to my clamour, Cheap, common as it is, a crawling cheese . . . So, for those verses, be content with these!
The red lips of the Octopus are more than myriad stars of night. The great beast writhes in fiercer foam than thirty stallions amorous. I would they clung to me and stung; I would they quenched me with delight, The red lips of the Octopus.
They reek with poison of the sea, scarlet and hot and languorous. My skin drinks in their slaver warm; my sweats his rapt embrace excite. The heavy sea rolls languidly o’er the ensanguine kiss of us.
We strain and strive, we die for love; we linger in the lusty fight; We agonize; our clutch becomes more cruel and more murderous; My passion splashes out at last; ah! with what ecstasy I bite The red lips of the Octopus!
Amsterdam, Xmas 1897.
O mistress of a myriad mysteries! I can remember every curve and span Of every lovely thing; I have the plan Of every crested crag and maze of ice That ever I beheld; then what device, Strange sorceress, has barred me with its ban From you? How is it, mistress, that I can Remember nothing of you but your eyes?
Your eyes! Live arrows with a thousand deaths Armed! Suns of poison, menacing the wreaths Of bay and myrtle that you twined! Dread spies Of Satan that unveil the God in me, And strip it naked with their mockery! Death! will you never take away your eyes?
BATHYLLUS
Enough of the frail aspergillus! Enough of the censer of bronze! Thy beauty, thy boy, thy Bathyllus, Whose body is soft as a swan’s, Splendid and sinewy slim, Cleanly and supple of limb, Waits for the hush of the hymn.
O gather me up in the vigour Of virile embraces, and bear My youth to the rush and the rigour Of marvellous mountainous air! Pass through the cool colonnades! Up through the gloom of the glades! Up! we are done with the shades.
My head is an ocean in anger With sleek and fantastical curls; My lips like a sunset for languor, My skin like a moonrise of pearls. Ah! but like stars in the deep Deep of the night, and asleep, Are the eyes that await thee, and weep.
Comest thou not, O my master, My God, my desirable one? Each breath is a death, a disaster, Till thou art arisen, O sun! Why should I wait in the wild, Who am thine, as a dove undefiled In the arms of an ivory child?
My body is oiled and anointed With dews of Thessalian bud; My nails are all polished and pointed And gilded, wherethrough is the blood Like to a roseate stream In the hills of the west set agleam That flows in its channel of cream.
Let us drink, O my Lord, let us fill us With purple Falernian wine! Thy lips on the lips of Bathyllus As we lock us and link and entwine, Eyes ever burning like coals For the passion that crowns and controls The mystical love of our souls.
Then, O if my pain were to kill me!— In the garden of music and musk Touch thou—and the thoughts of it thrill me— The poppy that flowers in the dusk! Poppy whose blossom is furled Deep in the breasts of the world— Ah! but the heart is impearled!
Not babes to the war of the ages Thy dews of devotion beget; But thoughts that illumine the sages Are flowers of our fashioning yet. Music and song are thereof Gotten, my god, and above Love, the fulfilling of love.
Ah master! thy fire the enrichment Of all the vain store of the shrine! All mine to entice by bewitchment The joy that is utterly thine! Ah! but thou sailest, a swan Stately and splendid upon The lake that was waste and wan!
Oh now! let thy rage interrupt My mischievous petulant smile Whose secret is hot and corrupt, Leers loose at the lips and is vile! Tear off the virginal wreath! Tear it with tigerish teeth! Then, oh the sword to its sheath!
Thine anger is redder and rougher; Thou huntest with thyrsus and thong. Ah God! it is I that must suffer, For thee ’tis enough to be strong. Strike! ere libation be spilt. Home! through the grace of the gilt. Stab! to the hilt! to the hilt!
Now, now, O my lover, be tender! Break not the suspense of the swoon! O my lily in pagan splendour That throbs in the heart of the moon! Ever the soul of me saith” Let me sink back into death! . . .
Hush me the heart of our breath!
THE MANTRA-YOGI
I
How should I seek to make a song for thee When all my music is to moan thy name? That long sad monotone—the same—the same— Matching the mute insatiable sea That throbs with life’s bewitching agony, Too long to measure and too fierce to tame. An hurtful joy, a fascinating shame Is this great ache that grips the heart of me.
Even as a cancer, so this passion gnaws Away my soul, and will not ease its jaws Till I am dead. Then let me die! Who knows But that this corpse committed to the earth May be the occasion of some happier birth? Spring’s earliest snowdrop? Summer’s latest rose?
II
Thou knowest what asp hath fixed its lethal tooth In the white breast that trembled like a flower At thy name whispered. Thou hast marked how hour By hour its poison hath dissolved my youth, Half skilled to agonise, half skilled to soothe The passion ineluctable, this power Slave to its single end, to storm the tower That holdeth thee, who art Authentic Truth.
O golden hawk! O lidless eye! Behold How the grey creeps upon the shuddering gold! Still I will strive! That by the striving broken I may exhaust this me! That thou mayst sweep Swift on the dead from thine all-seeing steep— And the unutterable word be spoken.
THE POET AND HIS MUSE
Two years I strove with all my store of spice To lure the victim to the sacrifice. I tempted him with garlands and with dances, With every virtue and with every vice,
With girls that twisted all his maiden fancies Into a spasm of lust; with necromancies Wherein he knew the utmost God to be No more than the plain torsion of his trances.
Maugre device and stratagem, I see How all his virgin soul revolts from me, Knowing me for the ancient whore that sits Crowned and triumphant through eternity:
Nor, though my beauty dazzled all his wits, Could he conceive that frailest fairy flits Across the abyss of mine imagining. So I came back from all my snares and pits, Crowned him with roses, called him lord and king.
Then the poor fool fell on me, stammering Pale phrases of his mortal love, a thing Almost too petty for my star of lust To attract within her orbit: still I swing
My godhead over his domain of dust, And make some fœtus . . . at the least, I trust! And in my womb I hide it, all his all Made mine with one swift suction, one slow thrust
Maniacal, murderous, musical, magical! So then I would not have him for my thrall, So I despised the thing I had devoured! And therefore, as I squat upon this ball
That spins and knows not, I shall spew the coward Out from the bliss wherein he is embowered, A stain of senseless sex upon the sod, And live my life, the honeyed and the flowered,
As ever. . . . Shall the even match the odd? His immortality worth my period? Nay! He is but the seed on whom I showered My rain, the dear mortality of God!
LILITH
The stench of the gross goat is in my nostrils instead of the perfume of Artemis. I plucked the Virgin by his broidered chlamys . . . who could have guessed that hairy horror hidden? I have got gall to be my drink, who mingled my wine with myrrh and musk and ambergris. I made my bed of silk and furs; and waking found I had swooned to sleep upon the midden.
Ah! Were those virgin lips of thine polluted with some rank savour of Sabbatic lust? What spell turned thee, the maiden, to a monkey jibbering anitphonal blasphemies. To those chaste chants I wooed thee by, the moment that touching thee, my fruit dissolved to dust, Fair-seeming Sodom-apple! Yet thy kisses smote all my spine to shuddering ecstasies!
So strode the fool upon the mountain ridges, crying: One step, and I attain the crest! Lo! The loose cornice tricks him, and he tumbles, a mangled nothing, to the glacier. So the nun cries: One effort and I conquer; I pass the gate, I win the appointed rest! And passing it discovers the foul body of Sin that waits to set his teeth in her.
So in my dreams, escaping from a monster, I turn one corner; “there is refuge—there!” Nay, there he lurked who never had pursued me . . . ’twas I who chased him to his proper holt. Then, O thou vile adorable, my lover, my master, catch me backward by the hair! Fasten thy fangs upon my mouth’s gasped anguish, and split my dream-clouds with thy thunderbolt!
Though thou be God or Satan, do thou master my death- pang with thy life-pang, and possess All that I am with all thou art, my Vampire, my Siren that I thought a nightingale! Abase me! Spit on me! Scourge me! Murder me! Take thy wolf’s meal of my loveliness! Give me the reek of thy foul breath, and show me the leper’s face behind the shining veil!
Yea! Though I sink through measureless abysses, I trace the incommensurable curve. Thy foursquare wedge that rages in my circle shall match it at the infinite period. Polluted body, violated spirit, corrupted soul, stunned brain and tortured nerve:— These merge into thy bloody maw, Echidna, that shall emerge the lone white flame of God.
SPORT AND MARRIAGE
How dream from facts of nature swerves!
As I was shooting my preserves I would not have believed, I swear, How very tame the pheasants were. My spaniel to a setter blushed; The bird would simply not be flushed. I beat one with a stick quite hard; He only fluttered half a yard, Scolding me: “Idiot and brute, Why in the devil don’t you shoot?” I turned upon my heel; the bird Followed me home—it sounds absurd! [My fault! for getting the grand slam on Chateau Yquem and cold boiled salmon!] At last in anger, not for fun, I lifted my reluctant gun, Gave him both barrels, plain and choke, And blew him into bits. I woke.
. . . . . .
—How dreams reflect the facts of life! I was in bed with my own wife.
THE TWINS
I
Have pity! show no pity! Those eyes that send such shivers Into my brain and spine: oh let them Flame like the ancient city Swallowed up by the sulphurous rivers When men let angels fret them!
II
Yea! let the South wind blow, And the Turkish banners advance, And the word go out: No quarter! But I shall hold thee—so While the boys and maidens dance About the shambles of slaughter!
III
I know thee who thou art, The inmost fiend that curlest Thy vampire tongue about Earth’s corybantic heart, Hell’s warrior that whirlest The darts of horror and doubt!
IV
Thou knowest me who I am The inmost soul and saviour Of man; what hieroglyph Of the dragon and the lamb Shall thou and I engrave here On Time’s inscandescable cliff?
V
Look! in the polished granite, Black as thy cartouche is with sins, I read the searing sentence That blasts the eyes that scan it: “Hoor and Set be Twins.” A fico for repentance!
VI
Ay! O Son of my mother That snarled and clawed in her womb As now we rave in our rapture, I know thee, I love thee, brother! Incestuous males that consume The light and the life that we capture.
VII
Starve thou the soul of the world, Brother, as I the body! Shall we not glut our lust On these wretches whom Fate hath hurled To a hell of Jesus and shoddy, Dung and ethics and dust
VIII
Thou as I art Fate. Come then, conquer and kiss me! Come! what hinders Believe me: This is the thought we await. The mark is fair; can you miss me Nay, you catch me, you cleave me!
XI
See, how subtly I writhe! Strange runes and unknown sigils I trace in the trance that thrills us. Death! how lithe, how blithe Are these male incestuous vigils! Ah! this is the spasm that kills us!
X
Wherefore I solemnly affirm This twofold Oneness at the term. Asar on Asi did beget Horus twin brother unto Set. Now Set and Horus kiss, to call The Soul of the Unnatural Forth from the dusk; then nature slain Lets the Beyond be born again.
XI
This weird is of the tongue of Khem, The Conjuration used of them. Whoso shall speak it, let him die, His bowels rotting inwardly, Save he uncover and caress The God that lighteth his liesse.
(A HUNDRED YEARS HENCE)
There met one eve in a sylvan glade A horrible Man and a beautiful maid. “Where are you going, so meek and holy?” “I’m going to temple to worship Crowley.” “Crowley is God, then? How did you know?” “Why, it’s Captain Fuller that told us so.” “And how do you know that Fuller was right?” “I’m afraid you’re a wicked man; Good-night.”
While this sort of thing is styled success I shall not count failure bitterness.
THE SORCERESS
Give me the good sun streaming through Glimmering glades of yew, And the cool grass, and one chaste shrine That pious hands have builded; And, oiled and scented, curled and gilded, A virgin, swimming like new wine In my grey old soul, that I may give His life to Pan, and live!
I have seen Love, and known A blasphemy, a violation And perfect profanation; Wherefore the god hath flown. My heart no longer trembles If that blind Harper—blind, or he dissembles!— Touches its strings with burning finger-tips, Or fastens his soft lips About my soul. . . . Then what is left To a woman love-bereft?
I have tasted Passion; I have known How the sharpness and the softness and the sweetness Mix to one pomegranate’s completeness Wherein Hell and Earth are shown. Oh fruit forbid! was there but one ripe tree Fruitful for me? Passion is gone—the wine is spilt And the sword broken at the hilt.
I have invoked the demon of debauch. All blinding wines, all soul-devouring crimes I have called to me, drilled the scarlet mimes Of murder to my own fantastic nautch. And now-these demons mock me; for their pay They sucked my inmost soul away; And—naught may move me—I am lost, Exenterate, exhaust!
So therefore, Pan! a corpse I come before thee To call down Life from thine abode beyond Death. Three times I circle thee: three times my breath Breathes on thy mouth; three times I do adore Thee, Till thine eyes glitter and thy loose lips curl Make me the innocent alluring girl Of fifteen years—that were! so to recoil The same sweet garland. . . . Hither comes the lad With shy looks—let me blind him, let me soil His swan-soft body and his soul swan-pure! Ah! but my life is glad. Pan smiles! My suit preferred. Now, let these eyes allure And this worn throat throb, thrill with songs to woo him, Fiercer than ever mortal heard. . . . Ha! to him!
THE CHILD
Alight and alive is the holiest flame. Leap out, O ye sparks, at the half-hidden name For ever my glory, for ever my shame!
Rejoice, O my soul, if his happiness hear! Exalt thee, my joy, if the spell shall uprear Delight in my dream, in the dream of my dear.
By passion and clamour the music is vain. Resurges the stridence, insists it is pain; Until, at the last, all the puzzle is plain.
Cry out on Apollo; he laughs at the whine. Evoke we a soul nor of man nor divine Deep-throned in a darker, unspeakable shrine.
O beautiful, beautiful! light be thy luck! Unveil thee to me; for my flower is to pluck; God gives thee my virginal honey to suck.
Lo! now is the hour, lest the happy hour go. Ah! love me an hour, if it kill me or no! So be it, my God! be it so, be it so!
CLYTIE
I strain mine eyes across the surge; the spindrift cuts me like a whip; The wet wind wails a wolfish dirge for its slain paramour the ship.
The ship, the ship that brings me home more than all hoarded galleons Brought through that sunset-blooded foam, with hulls of teak and beaks of bronze!
More than all store of gold or spice, ivory, slaves or sandal- wood Art thou, O marvel beyond price, O bee-hive of beatitude!
Is not each cell that builds thee up a well of honey-scented sips? Is not thy soul one fragrant cup of nectar at my thirsty lips?
Thou bearest in thine hollow staff the primal fire, the flower’s fume, Quintessence—now may Zeus engraff its pollen in my wintry womb!
But where’s the ship the kicking mast, the plunging bow, the reeling hull Aching beneath the bacchant blast, malevolent and beauti- ful?
Ai! Ai! then where’s my man, my man? I am a witch’s sieve to-night, Parched as the lusty Lesbian was for her savage lord, the light!
Ah! couldst thou slay me and appease—though naught but slaughter serve my turn, I, in an hour that bring thee ease, fret the night’s silk and ache and burn.
But now—my whole life stings in me; a viper violates my veins; Locusta laughs at Lalage! a ghoul that sucks at her own brains!
Where is the ship? Where is the ship? Where is my man, my man, my man? —Who gave thee power to rend and rip the hearty out from a courtezan?
I roved from town to town: I played the whore in every slimy stews. God! I am like a moon-struck maid, easing her drought on sister dews.
I throw myself upon the grass; I wail, a lone wolf, to the moon; Huddled and hunched, a moaning mass—How near God was those nights of June!
Death! the mere thought of it! For now—where is the ship? where is my man? The blood is bursting from my brow; my choked shrieks prostitute to Pan!
Great Pan it is that thrusts his sword into my throat and strangles me! Great Pan that clubs me on the sward with his robust brutality!
Ah no! ah no! Let me go blind rather than let that face of fear Swollen, its black indenture signed with blood, most maculate, appear!
Come then, O ship, the dream is past! Could not I watch and wait an hour? Nay, by the Gods, what gallant mast cuts yon horizon like a tower?
He comes, he comes, he comes. Oh hither, mine hand- maids, bind me neck to knee, Lest I should fling my body thither—where my soul stands—across the sea.
Hold me! he must not think I yearned—he is too master- ful—beware! Oh, should he guess this body burned, shame, shame—how should a maiden fare?
Nay, girls, I know. But Pan hath wrought this marvel on my wanton’s will, Filling it with one virgin thought, as strong as summer, and as still.
Ah hold! my body breaks away maugre your weakling struggles. Hold! Nay! my soul faints; the stinging spray lures like his kisses did of old.
Free! Now stand back! How good it is—how good it is to be alive! How good to swim for the first kiss! How good to dip oneself and dive!
Gods! Let him get me wholly now naked and radiant as the moon Clambering on his plunging prow those nights of June— those nights of June!
Few men are given, ’twixt heaven and hell, To play one part supremely well. On all time’s tablets there are few Who make a first-rate show of two, While those who perfectly play three We knew not, until you were he.
For what were lovelier on the lawn Than you, pearl-naked to the dawn, Wrapped in a scarlet dressing-gown Not thirty miles from London town, The “observed of all observers”—save That Scotland Yard, serene and suave, When trouble came, went tramping by; Closed one, and winked the other eye.
How pleasantly you must have smiled: “I left them, and I left them wild”: Though certainly they had abhorred The task of locking up a lord. For a more tragic rôle you played Your master neatly who betrayed. His shame and torture turned your leer To a snarl!—your drab’s smile to a sneer, Quickened, when afterwards your help He needed, to a currish yelp.
Now—so the wheel of Fortune whirls!— Your kindly love for little girls And ardour for the fine old faith Makes all that past a wisp, a wraith. You patronise our Sunday schools, Pronounce on Grammar’s darkest rules, Rebuke bad taste, irreverence, Heresy, humbug, and pretence. Your tepid verses come like boons To cheer Suburban afternoons; While Asquith, were he only wise, Would bid a Board of Morals rise; Sure no one like yourself can be Past-Master in Virginity.
Stay! if so well you play the rôles, Why not enact dramatic scrolls? You would be welcome on the stage To amuse and to instruct the age —A shining light in Opera-Bouffe: Giton, and Judas, and Tartufe!
I
Had I not been told, I could not have believed it! To hold and fold and mould Your body’s plastic gold! So rapturously bold No poet had conceived it; And yet, bright Yniold, I seem to have achieved it!
II
or word was ours, nor sight; But in the dusk there sported Some sprite of light and might That pushed our fingers’ flight To the same goal, delight, On pinions unsupported. One touch—the world went right, Its destiny distorted!
III
Still no word of this Though now we surely knew How miss the abyss of bliss, When all the ambergris Of your long hairs that hiss Drew me so subtly to it? We stole one lightning kiss With only God to view it.
IV
Hush! Across the stair. How its creak is thunder! Now care! now dare! be ware! Or—saved! at last I’m there, Drowned in your torrent hair, A flame, a waif, a wonder. A lioness in her lair Your body leaps from under.
V
Take the prize on trust! Dare the course and run it!— Sweet knight, you win the just,— Your thrust! a gust of lust!— Ah, God, then, if you must— Wordless still, we’ve won it! Tall Troy is in the dust! We’ve done it, done it, done it!
VI
Do you love me, dear? Said the glance you darted. Good cheer! why fear the year! Twice one is two, I hear! I am the hound, sweet seer! And you the hare I started. Shall I escape a tear, And you go broken-hearted?
VII
Kiss me! no one sees. There—good-bye the last time! Now, please! Luck’s ease is threes. What a kiss! what a squeeze! Dot the i’s! cross the t’s! Half a day’s a vast time! Tragedies, Comedies, Pantomime and pastime!
THE ARCHÆOLOGIST
The carmined lips of your moustachioed mouth; The fading fires in your debauched grey eyes With the black grooves about them, each a trench Where some dead soldier rots, a sterile stench— All of you, ripe and rotten, athwart the lies Of paint and powder, false fanfares of youth That blare, yet passionate ache their tongue were true— Hag of the pit, what should I make of you?
I will legitimize the bastard spell! Take all your falsehood, weld it with my force. Now then, Canidia, match thy miracle With mine, old medlar! Though the reek of hell Gush from thy gorge, I hold my knightly course, Dragon! I love thee, and I love thee well Who am like a shipwrecked sailor that should skry On the horizon some scarred citadel Or, smoking still, a volcan threat the sky, Or hairy with burnt forests, wracked and rent, Some ruin of an earthquaked continent!
It is not love, but worship most religious, This abject me, this wallowing at thy knees! I am like a pilgrim; the blue-faced baboons Of Christ receive him; he prostrates him, swoons In rapture; slobbers on some leprous piece Of flesh torn from Saint Damien—prestigious! Yet, that were relic of an holy man, And thou the carcass of a courtesan!
Beneath my seas thy creaking timbers tremble, Gallant old barque! I shake thee, stem and stern, With furious kisses in blind rage at Time Who hath wrought on thee his cold and common crime. So now I rise, laughing with love, and burn! Those dissolute embers of thy lust grown dun, The ashen horrors of thy face, resemble The dull red glare of a November sun.
THE LADDER
“I will arise and go unto my Father”
Malkuth
Dark, dark, all dark! I cower, I cringe. Only above me is a citron tinge As if some echo of red, gold, and blue Chimed on the night and let its shadow through. Yet I who am thus prisoned and exiled Am the right heir of glory, the crowned child.
I match my might against my Fate’s, I gird myself to reach the ultimate shores, I arm myself the war to win:— Lift up your heads, O mighty gates! Be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors! The King of Glory shall come in.
Tau
I pass from the citrine: deep indigo In this tall column. Snakes and vultures bend Their hooded hate on him that would ascend. O may the Four avail me! Ageless woe, Fear, torture, throng the threshold. Lo! The end Of matter! The immensity of things
Let loose—new laws, new beings, new conditions:— Dire chaos; see! these new-fledged wings Fail in its vaguenesses and inanitions. Only my circle saves me from the hate Of all these monsters dead yet animate. I match, &c
Yesod
Hail, thou full moon, O flame of Amethyst! Stupendous mountain on whose shoulders rest The Eight Above. More stable is my crest Than thine—and now I pierce thee, veil of mist! Even as an arrow from the war-bow springs I leap—my life is set with loftier things. I match, &c.
Samech (and the crossing of the Path of Pe)
Now swift, thou azure shaft of fading fire, Pierce through the rainbow! Swift, O swift! how streams The world by! Let Sandalphon and his quire Of Angels ward me! Ho! what planet beams This angry ray? Thy swords, thy shields, thy spears! Of meteors war and blaze; but I am I, Horus himself, the torrent of the sky Aflame—I sweep the stormy seas of air Towards that great globe that hangs so golden fair. I match, &c.
Tiphereth
Hail, hail, thou sun of harmony, Of beauty and of ecstasy! Thou radiance brilliant and bold! Thou ruby rose, thou cross of gold! Hail, centre of the cosmic plan! Hail, mystic image of the Man! I give the sign of slain Asar. I give the sign of Asi towering. I give the sign of Apep, star Of black Destruction all-devouring. I give thy sign, Asar re-risen:— Break, O my spirit, from thy prison! I match, &c.
Gimel (with the crossing of the path of Teth)
Hail, virgin Moon, bright Moon of Her That is God’s thought and minister! Snow-pure, sky-blue, immaculate Hecate, in Thy book of Fate Read thou my name, the soaring soul That seeks the supreme, sunless goal!
And thou, great Sekhet, roar! Confront the lion in the way! Thy calm indomitable eyes Lift once, and look, and pierce, and slay!
I am past. Hail, Hecate! Untrod Thy steep ascent to God, to God! Lo, what unnamed, unnameable Sphere hangs above inscrutable? There is no virtue in thy kiss To affront that soul-less swart abyss. I match, &c.
Daath
I am insane. My reason tumbles; The tower of my being crumbles. Here all is doubt, distress, despair: There is no force in strength or prayer If pass I may, it is by might Of the momentum of my flight. I match, &c.
Gimel (and the crossing of Daleth)
Free from that curse, loosed from that prison; From all that ruin am I risen! Pure still, the virgin moon beguiles My azure passage with her smiles.
Now! O what love divine redeems My death, and bathes it in her beams! What sacring transubstantiates My flesh and blood, and incarnates
The quintessential Pan? What shore Stretches beyond this secret door? Hail! O thou sevenfold star of green, Thou fourfold glory—all this teen Caught up in ecstasy—a boon To pass me singing through the moon!
Nay! I knew not what glory shone Gold from the breathless bliss beyond: But this I know that I am gone To the heart of God’s great diamond! I match, &c.
Kether
I am passed through the abyss of flame; Hear ye that I am that I am!
The Return
Behold! I clothe mine awful light In yonder body born of night. Its mind be open to the higher! Its heart be lucid-luminous! The Temple of its own desire The Temple of the Rosy Cross!
As Horus sped the flame, Harpocrates Receive the flame, and set the soul at ease. I who was One am One, all light Balanced within me, ordered right, As it was ever to the initiate’s ken Is now, and shall be evermore. Amen.
My heart’s blood hot upon your lips is reason For the ensanguine banners of their bliss; My white soul that your malice took by treason Is the cold ardour in your cheek, and this My bower that was jasmine in its season Is all your yellow snakes of hair, that hiss And fasten all their fangs upon me—these I knew, forget; they leave your saint at ease.
I have forgotten all these things, erotic While it was dark, while flesh corroded flesh With cancerous kisses acrid and exotic Like orchids, while the star-queen flung her mesh Over us as we swam, one soul dicrotic That blindly leapt through billow salt and fresh:— Oh darkness! how the perfume of it clings! How then have I forgotten all these things?
The light came on us kissing. Then I vaunted My lust again, and drank that fearful cup But—what new witchcraft held my soul enchaunted? What necromancy sucked my spirit up? I saw the demon-archimage that haunted Your eyes, that had me to his house to sup My blood, and crunch my bones—mine agonies To build into the rapture of your eyes!
So then I have forgotten all the other. Only those eyes pursue me through the æon, Whether by God’s grace we love one another, Whether I weave an ode or blare a pæan. There is no help, my vampire and my mother! But I am snared within those eyes Circean That blaze at me from wall, or wood, or well Their final knowledge of their final Hell.
For there is no soul, none, beyond ours, suave sister, In the fierce light—the boon, the bane, the bliss, The bale!—our eyes are born to burn and blister And blast Love’s queen herself in their abyss. See! the scarred cheek where our lips lightly kissed her; We whose eyes kiss, the sacramental kiss! The kiss whose lightest petal is a curse Fit to dissolve the ultimate universe.
Then, let us make a child! Shall he not be A flame of fire, a ringless ocean, a wind All-penetrating, a ten-branching tree, A height of spirit, an abyss of mind? Shall we not veil our eyes, lest he should see The extreme secret in their soul confined And die? Then let us also cease from seeing And wake the lusty whirlwind of our being!
Come! let the night fall; let us drown what knows In what exults; blot out the wizard figure Of thought, and build the many-coloured rose Your body on the cross, my body’s rigour. Chaos and Cosmos as God ebbs and flows Less than your thrust—wring out the extreme vigour! Annihilation take us, till we rise Once more to the damnation in your eyes!
THE POET AT BAY
You? much-respected married man! I? whom all decent people ban! You, of all people, come to me And ask about my poetry? For shame, sir! Well, if you insist!
Like an enamoured lutanist Graven on some bishop’s amethyst, So there is graven by fate’s steel And polished by time’s emery wheel This passion that consumeth me, Music that mars man’s dignity!
My love is like an unhealed scar That throbs and bleeds at the word war! My love is like a masterless Hound, running wide on a false scent. I am the plaything of distress; The marionette of the Event!
Yet this red lust that rots my sword Is the same flame that tempered it. Though my death be my birth’s reward, And folly be the prize of wit, Life was, and laughter. Take the odds Offered us by the gambling gods!
I saw a painted dancing-girl Writhe, jerk, shake, snap her fingers, curl Her lips into a lecherous leer All night for sixpence and her beer. I met her eyes. We knew each other, In God’s womb sister and twin brother! She blazed. Each belly-twitch set swinging The censers of the stars, set singing The myriad choirs of cherubim. All nature dived from sense, to swim In that past-space past-period Infinite ocean that is God.
Such luck be yours! You cannot tell The pulse that makes my forehead swell. You see me walk in clubs, not cloisters; Eat not ambrosia, but oysters. Nor shall it all avail you, though You eat your heart for lust to know, To watch these sparks of verse I throw Cold ere they flame! For they attest The anvil’s ring, the hammer’s zest, The white-hot rage of steel, that is My soul exulting in God’s kiss The hammer, and the anvil life. . . . . . . . . . .
Go, and explain it to your wife!
UT
I
Hail to the golden One Seen in the midmost Sun! Hail to the golden beard and golden lips, His whole life golden to the finger-tips! Hail to the golden hair in golden showers Hiding the eyes like blue blue lotus-flowers! His name is Ut, for He Hath risen above all things that be.
II
Ardent and white, the Lord Whirls forth a strident sword. Its blade is broader than the great World-Ash; Its edge is keener than the lightning-flash. Brighter than all the lights of heaven, it whirls Out in a chaos of creative curls And sheathes itself in Me, Arisen above all things that be.
III
Even as the burning tongue Of God to God that clung Dissolved His being to a nameless naught, Brake all the wings and waves of time and thought, So in the quivering flame that hurled Its founts of life to the remotest world Supreme stood Death, and sware Destruction to all things that were!
IV
Child, father, warrior, I worshipped Thee before; Friend, bridegroom, now I yield me to the rod. My God, and very God of very God As breath, as death, as all, as naught, unknown, Known, is there not an end, when one alone Stand I, and thou, and He Arisen above all things that be?
ROSA DECIDUA
“O Rose, thou art sick! The invisible worm That flies in the night In the howling storm Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.”—Blake.
Rose of the World! If so, then what a world! What worm at its red heart lay curled From the beginning? Plucked and torn and trampled And utterly corrupt is she That was the queen-flower unexampled In gardens goodlier than Arcady.
O Thou! whose body was my lyre, whose soul Lay on my mouth like a live coal! This time thou hearest not my song; thine ears Are stopped with worse than death; And all this wasted breath Of mine—those songs of six most memorable years Of ecstasy and agony—may not attain To charm thy being into love again. . . .
This is no tragedy of little tears. My brain is hard and cold; there is no beat Of its blood; there is no heat Of sacred fire upon my lips to sing. My heart is dead; I say that name thrice over; Rose!—Rose!—Rose!— Even as lover should call to lover; There is no quickening, No flood, no fount that flows; No water wells from the dead spring. My thoughts come singly, dry, contemptuous, Too cold for hate: all I can say is that they come From some dead sphere without me; Singly they come, beats of a senseless drum Jarred by a fool, harsh, unharmonious.
There is no sense within me or about me; Yet each thought is most surely known For a catastrophe. No climax of a well-wrought tragedy! Single and sterile. I am here for naught. I have no memory of the rose-red hours. No fragrance of those days amid the flowers Lingers; all’s drowned in the accursed stench Of this damned present. The past years abort And this is found. Foul waters drench My earth. All’s filth. With what cold eye one scans This body that was—so long since—two years! I wrench
My soul to say it—all a man’s Delight. Come, look at it! This leaden skin With ochre staining its amorphous grey; All that elastic brilliance passed away; Minute invading wrinkles where the flesh Is soaked away by the foul thing within Her soul; the bloom so faint and fresh Smudged to a smoky glow as one may see At sunset in the Factory lands; the lips Thinned and their colour sickened into slate; The eyes like common glass; the hair’s gloss dull; The muscles gone, all pendulous with fat; The breath that was more sweet than Lebanon And all the flowers and honey and spice thereof Ripe for my soul’s kiss, eagerly to cull, Now like a corpse three weeks drowned, swollen by sun And water and vermin. There she sways and stares, And with the jaw dropped all awry—first swears, Then lurches; then she slobbers unctuously: “I am not old: I am quite beautiful; How have I lost your love? Pitiful! Pitiful! Pitiful!
This is no tragedy of little tears. This worm was in her blood Lurking for thrice five years, And now I see him—that old slime that leers Where Bacchus smiles, that evil and averse God that is wholly curse, As He is wholly blessing to the wise. This thing invertebrate, this sewer-flood, Compact of treacheries, meannesses, and lies, Horrible thirst, infamous beastliness, Dirt and disease, so sottish wallowing, Yet sensitive to pain so hideous That sometimes he appears all pain, all fear, All hate—so slavish, yet so fierce a king, A tyrant to himself, insidious And cunning as some sordid sorceress; Incapable of action or control, Yet a black gulph to drown so strong a soul! . . .
He lay close curled within my rose’s heart. There is no blame; yet what avails all art? See! I reel back beneath the blow of her breath As she comes smiling to me: that disgust Changes her drunken lust Into a shriek of hate—half conscious still (Beneath the obsession of the will) Of all she was—before her death, her death! So hell boils over in her, and she rages —It seems through countless ages— With all the vile abuse That had degraded Glasgow’s grimiest stews, With all the knowledge of despair Striking me cunningly, striking everywhere, Mutilating the corpse of my dead love With such a savagery, Intensity above All understanding, that it bleeds again As a corpse should bleed at the murderer’s touch! Then, not content, she must needs smutch All my past purifying pain, Turning all life to a thing fouler than Aught yet imaginable to man!
Who asks me for my tears? She flings the body of my sweet dead child Into my face with hell’s own epitaph, Profanes that shrine Of infinite love and infinite loss, My empty shrine, the one shrine undefiled, My one close-claspèd cross— And hers as much as mine! Profanes it with a hideous laugh And a lie flung with a curse; and I must hear, And must not stamp on the snake, because, forsooth This was my love, my peace, my faith, my truth, The rosebud of my youth!
It was—it is not—it can never be. This would corrupt God’s body with a breath. I see Him sicken and swoon; I see Him rot Through, though His tabernacle be Eternity. This makes a man catch hold of death Greedily like a harlot in the street That plucks by the arm some sot. Death shakes me off with a hoarse curse. Tied to this woman, his beneficence Were too like heaven—and heaven’s somehow to earn No doubt—no way that I know! Hell’s enough If hell would only burn And silence the one devil-word of love.
Ay! death slinks off. I have a child that claims my life To keep from knowledge of her mother’s fate, To keep from heritage thereof, To shield from the world’s scoff, To watch, stamp out the seeds of madness in her. God! that hast held me back from hate, Be merciful to me a sinner And ward me, warding her! As it is written: Excepting Adonai build the house, they labour In vain that build it. And Again: Excepting Adonai keep the city, The watchman watcheth but in vain. God, if there be a God, be Thou my Neighbour; And if that God have pity, have Thou pity! For never man was smitten as I am smitten; Nor from Time’s yesterday to Time’s to-morrow Was there a sorrow like unto this sorrow! How many hours was Christ upon the cross? How many days in hell? But I have hung From the day of infinite loss Watching her degradation into dung Three years. Three years! And now who asks me to shed tears?
Let a man pierce my side, I warrant him nor blood nor water flows, But such a poison as Locusta never Distilled from toad, asp, viper, scorpion, Nightshade, gall, orpiment, Jews’ hearts, Old women’s tongues, by monstrous arts; But this my poison drips, without endeavour, From the mere soul of the world’s rose! What alchemy of hell this ronyon Venus has skill of! Wonder that I live! This has been like a bag-pipe drone to wail Its monotone through high, low, fast and slow. It has been like a secret cancer, Forcing all servants of the life to give Their work to the usurper; all its themes assail The main word Life; they build their archipelago Of poison in each sea where life was holy. Their questions have no answer, But all’s converted to the abominable Soul-sickening thing that one is tied to. This is I Just as God in His Nature, wholly Involved therein, its tune, its motive, its quintessence. There were no meaning in Spring’s aspen spell, Where man’s sole treasury, the sky, Made bankrupt of His presence. Only, this God is a black fiend; Of blood, the babe’s drink, weaned And fattened on—what liquor and meat? Unnameable By all the giant horrors that haunt hell!
These years I have watched her fade, my masterful love And all-embracing pity strove Like athletes in an amorous bout to make Some child to tread upon that snake. But ever the worm slipped, escaped; its spires Here crushed, there rose the stronger for the pressure That gave it purchase; keener flamed the fires In its eyes triumphant. Now its soul asserts Its master-pleasure; The worm exerts Its adult might, and in one bout The spine snaps of that child of Love and Pity, And mangled he falls out Of the fight. Just so child Hercules Strangled two serpents in his pretty Red fists, achieved twelve labours, won to ease, And was done down to death and madness by The subtle poison that himself distilled. So all the God in life is chilled To a corpse. The informing one? God’s a cast clout Of a leper! Leave me here, corruptest of earth’s whores To scrape my sores
Cry like a dog and run about the city! There is no word left, now the deed is dead! No thought of her is in me; I am a stranger To all that dream of danger And bliss that Rose was. The green shoots Of life that spring in me are fed Not even on the more of her decay. They spring from other roots. Now I am cleansed of her, I am so to say A man part paralysed. One limb is dead In feeling as in motion. This remains To ask: Will all catch death—how soon? This head Excites its miserable brains To think the word it knows by intellect To be the right word—pity! Then reflect: “Pitiful! Pitiful! most pitiful! The pity of it! Think of the love past, Blossoms too beautiful! Think of the hardships conquered comrade-wise! Think of the babe and its most piteous end!” —All these things sound like lies. I do not comprehend Anything of them—“Pity! pity! pity!” ’Tis like the dripping of some stagnant rain From the housetops of a ruined city Upon the flagstones. Not one petal clings Upon the stalk of life or memory. Stain Not one pale thought with blushes; my soul’s dead As a corpse flung out of the tideway on The stinking flats of London mud. The springs Are dry beyond appeal; dull grey like lead (And heavier) is my soul’s carrion. If she came pleasing now, pure passionate, and sane, I would not take her back again. I am warned—that’s the word. Let my own back feel the lash! All power of live is burnt right through to ash. Bray it in a mortar, mix with gall and ink, And give it to the children for a drink!
I’ll wait till she is dead, to bring those tears. I doubt not in the garden of my heart Whence she is torn that flowers will bloom again. May those be flowers of weeping, flowers of art. Flowers of great tenderness and pain, Broad lilied meers Lying in a lonely leafless forest Silent and motionless beneath the moon.
I feel my weakness, O thou soul that soarest Into a heaven beyond imagining On the unfaltering wing. Of the magic swan! I know this tune Should swell to a strong note, a triumph note Blared through a trumpet’s throat To tell the world I am no coward, or else Sob in sweet minor, soft as Asmodel’s Chant to the nightingale. I am so wrecked, so rent That one seems brag, the other sentiment. I cannot leave the present; I will not pose There lies the rotten rose And stinks. That is the truth; the rest is gloss. My loss was total loss. So close that rose lay to my heart, its fall Was the catastrophe of all. Now call me callous! Pass me, prigs, and sneer At the base soul that could not bear its cross! I say that infinite loss is infinite loss, That tears are trivial, tears are happiness, That this blind ache is God’s last punishment For love; that all things in that one thing shent Are damned, that had I loved her less I could have prated in some honeyed strain. Taking a subtle pleasure in my pain. It is my bulk, the mass of my intent, That makes the ruin abject. I had sung Some partial earthquake; here the universe Crashes with one great curse, Whelming the singer and the song. My tongue Is palsied; only this chaotic clash Of curses echoes the dire crash.
And after all the roar, there steals a strain At last of tuneless, infinite pain; And all my being is one throb Of anguish, and one inarticulate sob Catches my throat. All these vain voices die, And all these thunders venomously hurled Stop. My head strikes the floor; one cry, the old cry, Strikes at the sky in its exquisite agony:
Rose! Rose o’ th’ World!
THE CIRCLE AND THE POINT
THE CIRCLE
I am the Holy Queen of Heaven! Eternal matter is my name. The veiléd star, the crowned eleven. These are my soul, as thou my flame, O wingéd globe of serpents twined, O sun of glory in my skies! O subtle spirit of my mind! O ardent rapture of mine eyes! Thou secret centre, motion, rest:— Come to my breast! Come to my breast!
THE POINT
I am the Lord of Heaven, and I Am secretly arrayed and robed In all the azure abyss of sky By serpents wingéd, wound and globed. Thou art the Infinite of space, Thou the blue-lidded love of air! I burn to kiss the exultant face, To grip the body bent and bare. O music! to my silence be! I come to thee! I come to thee!
IN MEMORIAM
E. R. et E. H.
Strip, dear! Naked-pure you lie— Surely we are done with dreams! Open to the world’s wide eye! Let them know, sweet, how it seems (To a love like ours) to die!
So, dear! Virginal you were When I touched your life with song; Virgin now to death lie there! You shall not await him long. (Fold your body in your hair!)
Satan, hail! our consecration! Lilies, lilies: let them swathe you, Robes baptismal of damnation! Tuberose and iris bathe you In the sea, annihilation!
All white flowers I build, a fane Fit to shroud the sacrifice. I will kiss you once again Ere I pull the trigger twice. —Or our death were died in vain.
Are you ready, sweet? Then fold Once your arms about me, cling Close and clip me as old— In the presence of the King That awaits us. Love is bold.
We are witness—by our fate— To one poet—is there one? That beyond the miry weight Of the fog there shines a sun! Be he comforted thereat! . . . . . .
Yea! I chant your mastery! In the hag-ridden, mange-bitten, Sodden, superstitious sty That John Milton made of Britain In the twentieth century, Two in blood the runes have written— How to love and how to die!
Praise, O Martyrs! Not one bead Of your strong blood but shall thrill In our hearts, and burn and breed Myriad children to your will. We will damn the coward’s creed, And the eunuch’s squeaking still, Till the world is yours indeed!
Yea! at last the spell shall break Wherewith Christ and Cromwell bound us We shall once more (for your sake!) Be the men that Shakespeare found us. All our life and lust awake! All your love and joy surround us Smooth and deadly as a snake!
Thus I build your monument, Happy martyrs, passion-crowned! Death your holiest sacrament, Life mere garlands that you wound Laughing on your brows, and rent! Fare ye well, O world-renowned! Enter into great content!
AD FIDELEM INFIDELEM
Ah, sweet my sister! Was it idle toil, When in the flowerless Eden of Shanghai We made immortal mischief, you and I “Casting our flame-flowers on the dull brown soil?” Did we not light a lamp withouten oil Nursed by unfruitful kisses, stealthily Strewn in the caldron where our Destiny Bides brooding—Mother, bid its brew to boil!
Ah, Sweetheart, we were barren as Sahara, But on Sahara burns our subtle star. Soon an oasis, now too lone and far, Shall bloom with all the blossoms of Bokhara: See! o’er the brim the mystic fountain flows! Cull from the caldron the ensanguine Rose!
THE SPHINX
Beneath the cruel splendid Sphinx My soul lies supine still, and drinks Damnation from the emerald eyes, Death from the painted mouth that dies As, drunk on life, she sucks it in! O crimson masterpiece of sin, The mouth that maddens me and slays My youth in many molten ways! All her adulterous ardours wake The god, the tiger, and the snake. I yield; her soft, her strenuous breath Fills me and feeds my soul on death.
O Sphinx, more sacred than the stars! O beast! O God! thy passion chars This life. Beneath thy claws I writhe. For like a lion thou art lithe And like a bull exceeding strong. Thine eagle’s scream beats down my song. Ah slay me, slay me now! Have done! . . . The torture is but half begun.
THE JEW OF FEZ
There was a Jew—tradition says— Who loathed the colour of his fez.
“Black gives an air of gloom,” he said: “I should look beautiful in red!”
He told the Mullah of his plight The good man answered: “Very right!
“Islam is free to all mankind: You only need to be resigned.”
The Jew agreed; he learnt to pray Five several times each mortal day.
Instead of Abraham, the Mullah Called him Habib Husain Abdullah.
But (what indeed is hardly strange) His views on Art began to change.
“This red’s a shrieking tone, I swear! O for the black I used to wear!”
His bullied servants overheard This wicked renegado-word.
Four soldiers dragged the Jew away To prison on that very day.
The Cadi and the Caid wept; They thought a promise should be kept.
“Be calm” (said they) “and do not strive! We think of burning you alive.”
“Shame!” said the wretch. “ ’Tis cruel to Burn me because I am a Jew!”
The wise old Cadi wagged his head. “I do not see a Jew,” he said.
“This clear distinction must be made. We only burn a renegade.”
The fire they burnt Abdullah at Went merrily; for he was fat.
THE PENTAGRAM
In the Years of the Primal Course, in the dawn of terrestrial birth, Man mastered the mammoth and horse, and Man was the Lord of the Earth.
He made him an hollow skin from the heart of an holy tree, He compassed the earth therein, and Man was the Lord of the Sea.
He controlled the vigour of steam, he harnessed the light- ning for hire; He drove the celestial team; and Man was the Lord of the Fire.
Deep-mouthed from their thrones deep-seated, the choirs of the æons declare The last of the demons defeated, for Man is the Lord of the Air.
Arise, O Man, in thy strength! the kingdom is thine to inherit, Till the high gods witness at length that Man is the Lord of his spirit.
The World for a whore! The Sky for a harlot! All life—at your door— For a woman of scarlet! A bitter exchange A bad bargain to strike? It May seem to you strange: The fact is—I like it!
II
You offer me gold, Place, power and pleasure To have and to hold— Inexhaustible treasure! I’ll give it and more In this planet of boredom For a girl that’s a whore, And is proud of her whoredom!
AN HYMN FOR THE AMERICAN PEOPLE
(Independence Day)
Brothers and sisters, on this day Of deathless glory, let us come United in our glad array To hymn our fathers’ martyrdom. Ashes to ashes? Dust to dust? So let it be! In God we trust.
They died—they died—and we are free. Take up their cross! Deserve their crown! The stainless flag of liberty By man shall not be trodden down! Ashes to ashes? Dust to dust? So let it be! In God we trust.
In war and earthquake, wreck and wrong, Still let the flag of freedom fly! In peace and safety, still be strong! For we will live as we would die. Ashes to ashes? Dust to dust? So let it be! In God we trust.
Though ruin wash the world in blood, Though death devour, though time decay, Let but our hearts hold brotherhood, And this they shall not take away. Ashes to ashes? Dust to dust? So let it be! In God we trust.
Stand! and join hands! and let us sing! Shake out Old Glory to the skies! With heart and hand defiant fling Our purpose against Destiny’s Ashes to ashes? Dust to dust? So let it be! In God we trust.
PROLOGUE TO RODIN IN RIME
Nor I can give, nor you can take; endures The simple truth of me that this is yours Is not the music mingled with the form When all the heavens break in blind black storm? Are we not veiled as Gods, and cruel as they, Smiting our brilliance on the shuddering clay? Silence and darkness cover us, confirm Our splendour to its unappointed term: For all the mean homunculi that dance Around us shudder at our brilliance. These puppets perish in the good grand glare, Our sworded sunlight in the boundless air! These bats need cloisters; these tame birds a cage; How should they know the Masters of the Age? Or understand when the Archangels cry Adoring us “ 'Έλλην κατ’ άστερ ‘έι”?
THE CAMP FIRE
IN MEMORIAM A. C. S.
The meer is haunted, berylline that lies Upon the enchaunted moor, bare to the skies. Far as the eye leaps, there is nothing seen But Mystery, the horizon hungry and lean Like a slim snake encompassing the air. Subtly the lake woos, like a virgin’s prayer.
No moon there was; no stars could pierce the blind O’ertoppling mass of heaven; there was no wind. There was no man, no beast; no sound or sight Broke thy swart span, O brooding vulture, Night! Where the tarn dwindled, was lost altogether, I piled, I kindled the sparse twigs of heather On one squat square stark rock; I struck my steel. The sparks splash: flares the pyre, a wildering wheel Of light that rolled, and lit the meer, and showed A glint of gold in that inane abode.
Thus then I sate, and warmed me at the blaze, Brooding like Fate upon my desert days. Before the dawn, the pyre burnt through to ash, The god withdrawn; effaced the golden gash! I sate and shivered: so this pregnant breath Must be delivered at the door of Death! Poor petty torch to which our spirits flutter Our wings to scorch! Ah, shall no angel utter Some word to allay the universal doom? All swept away into a dusty tomb!
My friend! who dreamt that dream of Permanence? Are we exempt from any common sense Was not my fire warm while it burned? Am I No living lyre because my songs must die? Is not Becoming Being’s twin? Be mute! Is Death’s low drumming louder than Life’s lute? Was I the ass, that fed my body on That crackling grass, long after midnight gone; Or thou, that shivered all night long for fear The sun delivered no dawn upon the meer?
More, canst thou tell what god may watch thy beacon, Feed it from hell or heaven, ere it weaken, From some anointed sceptre, fiery dew For this appointed, that my soul win through?
Nay! all we know not anything. Yet raise, Though we must throw our hearts to feed its blaze, The aspiring flame, the passionate glow, the bloom Whose root is shame, whose fruit the trackless tomb. I wail “I know not,” louder and livelier Who laugh, and go not, shaveling sinister! To you for help, who snarl “ I know,” and grasp, Mean mongrel whelp! my bulging sporran’s clasp.
So, Swinburne, sleep! That which is written is written. I will not weep. The torch of song is smitten Into dry stray leaves elsehow doomed for sure To damp decay, Victorian manure, Miasmal squelch, black slough to mire the Sun, The stink and belch and snivel of Tennyson!
Hail and farewell, my brother! I am he To plant in hell thy sunkissed sea-lily Thou has lived! As I live, stars in midnight’s deep. Thou hast died. All die; why boggle at the leap? Serene and splendid blazed thy fire, night’s sun: Thy task is ended, brother, thy work done. Drone on thy shore, no pæan stir thy surge! A period to life, death, heaven, and hell! There is no God: hail, brother! and farewell!
Pale as the night that pales In the dawn’s pearl-pure pavilion, I wait for thee, with my dove’s breast Shuddering, a god its bitter guest— Have I not gilded my nails And painted my lips with vermilion?
Am I not wholly stript Of the deeds and thoughts that obscure thee? I wait for thee, my soul distraught With aching for some nameless naught In its most arcane crypt— Am I not fit to endure thee?
Girded about the paps With a golden girdle of glory, Dost thou wait me, thy slave who am, As a wolf lurks for a strayed white lamb? The chain of the stars snaps, And the deep of night is hoary!
Thou whose mouth is a flame With its seven-edged sword proceeding, Come! I am writhing with despair Like a snake taken in a snare, Moaning thy mystical name Till my tongue is torn and bleeding!
Have I not gilded my nails And painted my lips with vermilion? Yea! thou art I; the deed awakes, Thy lightning strikes; thy thunder breaks Wild as the bride that wails In the bridegroom’s plumed pavilion!
THE WILD ASS
I
THE secret of the House of Set Is hidden in my sevenfold veil; For I am he that doth beget The Rood, and bear the Holy Graal.
Yet is my manhood woman-frail Barren my motherhood. Then how Shall men my mystic mountain scale? These ram’s-horn thumbs jut from my brow
To push them to the miry slough Wherein the foes of Set are caught. Come, let us pluck the Golden Bough From the brave Tree of life and thought!
Who heareth naught, he heedeth naught. Come, we are safely housed and shrined Where subtler images are wrought Than boast the treasuries of Mind!
II
The secret of the House of Set. As a poor pilgrim clambering Toils on the slopes, so I to get Halidom for my lord the King.
Faintly and feebly murmuring I uttered the mysterious runes, And bade my body’s sleekness sing Silky, satanic, subtle tunes.
Was he not holy? Milk of moons Were not so pallid as his cheek, And roses of a million Junes His mouth left livid. So I seek
In all God’s seas a tiny creek Wherein to moor my shallop. Nay! He is a mountain, chill with bleak Stark winds of innocence astray!
The fearful passion sweeps me away. So with a passionate thrill of fear I creep—like shadows across Day! Like Winter on the expended year!—
From those cold feet, a frozen meer, To those cold knees, a lost lagoon, To that wild woodland, strangely near To the lone tower that tops the moon!
Verily and Amen! Unhewn The great grim forest menaces. What gardener may dare to prune Those woods to build me palaces?
So climb, each ledge an infinite stress, Lustful as light, as lechery loth, From the brutality of Besz To the plumed perjury of Thoth!
I held him holy. Holier both Than aught the bearers of the bier, Thoum-aesh-neith and Auramoth, Saw in the hiding-house of fear.
The sorceries that span the sphere, The spells that harness star and sun, I whispered in his siren ear— Once, twice, and thrice for every one!
Once, twice, and thrice—the boon’s begun! With four and five and six it stirs: With seven the druid dance is done, And Death drives home his silver spurs!
Then—the last leap. What crowning curse Can bid that cup of curses brim? How may God’s maniac ministers Lash the last langour out of Him?
I did it. How? So great and grim The Gods are, I may never guess. Suffice it, on his mouth I swim A drowning dastard. The caress
Wakes the lost life. I see him dress The godhead. Up he bounds and brays:— The wild ass of the wilderness, The soul that sees, the soul that slays!
Inhabit the untrodden ways, Set! Thou my god and I thy priest, Thy temple hidden in the haze Of deserts death to god or beast!
Thou who art both shalt foin and feast With me who am both, thy hate’s co-heir, Lord of the West and of the East— The scorpion’s hole, the lion’s lair!
I kissed his mouth—sublime despair! Our souls were one; our bodies met— Yea! darkness cover everywhere The secret of the House of Set!
THE OPIUM-SMOKER
(IN EIGHT FUGUES)
I
Crown me with poppy-leaves: sere are the bays. Fling down the myrtle: the myrtle decays. Still be the strife of the strenuous days!
Still be thy stridency, Player Pandean! Soothe me the lute; but oh hush to the pæan! Feed me on kisses of flowers Lethean!
Specks on the wheel are the nights and the days, Fast as they fall from me, lost in the haze, Sobered to softness of silvery grays.
Satan is fallen from the pale empyrean Down in the dusk with the dead Galilean:— Fill me the cup of the poppy Circean!
II
Hardly a glimmer to chasten the gloom; Hardly a murmur of Time at his loom; Nothing of sense but the poppy-perfume.
Boy, as you love me, I charge you to fold Pipe over pipe into gardens of gold Such as a god may be glad to behold.
Seated on high in the æons of doom, Sucked as a seed to the infinite womb, Sealed is my soul in the sheath of its tomb.
Boy, as you love me, I charge you to mould Pipe after pipe, till the heavens are rolled Back and are lost as a tale that is told!
III
Silence and darkness are weaving a web Broidered with Nothing at uttermost ebb:— Cover, oh cover the shaming of Seb!
Fling the wide veil, O Nuit, on the shame!— Shame from the Knowledge and unto the Name— Hide it, O hide it, in flowers of flame!
Now in the balance of infinite things Stirs not a feather; the universe swings Poised on the stealth of ineffable wings.
Surely the sable Osirian bird Sole in the æther shall utter the Word Now that its crying can never be heard!
IV
See how the Star of the Universe blazes! Millions of meteors in marvellous mazes Mingle their magic of peony praises.
Oh! the dark streak on the heart of its flood! Smitten is the Star, and its poisonous blood Drips through the race of the luminous scud.
Poison and poison and poison! I quiver, Drenched with the hate of the horrible river— O but the stars of it stagger and shiver!
Leave me in peace, O disaster of light! Leave me to solitude, leave me to night! Is there no moon to enkindle the height?
V
See how the moon with her amrita dews Drinks up the death of the Star, and renews Life in cascades of peonian hues!
Nay, but she curves to arise, to increase; Glamour on glamour to sicken and cease. How shall the warrior win to the peace?
Fade, O thou moon in thy magical bark! Sink in the ocean thy silvery spark! Leave me, ah leave me alone in the dark!
Art thou not burnt in the fire of my will? See, by the flashes that crimson and kill I am the master; the magic is still.
VI
See! how the wrath of my rune that I send her, Fire of my fire, is flung flying to end her, Wrapping in ruin that scintillant splendour.
Fire of my fire! how the brilliance darts forth, Runs to the uttermost pole of the north, Splashing all space with the spume of my wrath!
Ah! but the subtle, the perilous way; That hath no fire to enkindle the clay. Ever to all be the work of me Nay!
I who am Being and Knowledge and Bliss Lack by so much of the utter abyss:— Bring me, O bring me, O bring me to this!
VII
Nay! it is over; I may not attain. Why am I faint but because I am fain Roll me the rapture of amber again!
Ah! but the poppy’s deciduous dream May not avail me to stand to the stream Bearing me back from the Mighty Extreme.
Subtle and sombre the eagre of sleep Rolls up the bay to envelope the steep. What then is left, what is left—but to weep?
Maybe the stridency purpled of Pan Leads at the last to the light of His plan. Maybe his work is the wealth of a man!
VIII
Bring me the tablets, the stylus of jade! Lend me thy light, O compassionate maid! Soul of the master, O come to mine aid!
Make me the man of the marvellous mission! Sharpen the sword of veridical vision Cut me the knot of the mighty magician!
Here I devote me (record me the vow) Unto the terrible task of the Tao. Soul of the master, the writer be thou!
Bring me the tablets and stylus! Have done! Guard me the doors; they are open to none, Not to the Emperor! I have begun.
(A BLACK MASS)
The pale girl with the glittering eyes Leans forward; all her youth’s despair Stares from the fleshless face that lies ’Mid the faint flax of her hair Fallen on her foolish ’broideries: She is too deathly fair.
She stares—she stares—she reads this thought, What black joy her harsh cough affirms. Life leers—a jesting Juggernaut! Death beckons, beckons to the worms. And the smile upon his face is fraught With all its ghastly terms.
Out of the glimmer and incense-reek Two clamorous colour-cries emerge. The frightful flush that stains her cheek Is the rouge of the White Scourge; Her pallor is like a spectre sleek That dances to a dirge.
Her slim transparent hand is wan As a moonstone, as blue ice! She hath divers jewels crusted on To her rings’ graven obscenities, Like elfin eyes, the malison Of a basilisk cockatrice!
She hath a cold, an ardent gleam In the staring eyes of her; She weaves a witch-web of dank dream Before her worshipper; Her hand allures him to its theme: Sceptre to sepulchre!
So cold, so chaste, so sombre glows The purpose of her cypress glance! A sphinx set up amid the snows, An Attis frozen in his dance, Is this unnatural god that knows No man’s inheritance.
So with a strange Circean smile She bends herself and moves With a vile, a calculated wile In the unfamiliar grooves, Whose horror hath so great a guile That her hates pass for loves.
Within the gold bars of her rings She grips the god as in a vice. She watches every twinge that wrings The heart of the struggling sacrifice, Lest she should lose the joy that stings, The furies that entice.
Slower and firmer and steadier! Relentless, ruthless, still she sways; And the snake-cold stealth and hate of her Flash in the jewels, and bite, and blaze; While the mystic hand, her minister, Moves in its fatal ways.
The victim twists and writhes beneath The scornful spell, the giant grip. He rolls his eyes, he grinds his teeth Like a slave under the whip; And his tortured groans can only wreathe A sneer upon her lip.
In the half-light her jewels flame Like stars that presage pestilence. O laughterless, O hideous game Of sterile smiles, of cold incense! Her death’s-head grins the gargoyle shame Of her virile virulence.
Now let the slave gasp out his soul In the agony supreme! She laughs outright as she gains the goal Of her dark and deadly dream; And the white life leaps from his control Wild, in a choking scream.
She curves white lips to a cup of death; Her eyes gleam, and her wise brows nod; Her hand makes music with her breath Dancing upon the ivory rod— The dying priestess offereth The sacrifice to God
MR TODD
A MORALITY
In Memoriam
LILITH
Obiit Kal. Mai 1906
PERSONS OF THE PLAY
Grandfather Ossory (eighty-one) Alfred Ossory (fifty), his son, a shipowner Emily Ossory (forty-five), his wife Euphemia Ossory (eighteen), his daughter Charley Ossory (ten), his son George Delhomme (twenty-four), of the ministry of Foreign Affairs Dionyss Carr (thirty-four), Professor of Experimental Eugenics in the University of Tübingen; and Mr. Todd
Thomas, a footman A Hospital Nurse
Scene: The sitting-room in Ossory's house in Grosvenor Square.
Time: Midday.
The persons are in correct morning dress, except the invalid Grandfather, who is in a scarlet dressing-gown, with gold embroidery, and Carr, who affects a pseudo-Bohemian extravagance. He wears a low collar, a very big bow-tie of gorgeous colours, a pale yellow waistcoat, a rich violet lounge suit with braid, patent leather boots, pale blue socks. But the refinement and breeding of the man are never in question. His hair is reddish, curly, luxuriant. He is clean-shaved, and wears an eye-glass with a tortoiseshell rim.
Todd has a face of keen pallor; he is dressed in black, with a flowing black cape, black motor-cap. He gives the impression of great age combined with great activity.
ACT I
Grandfather sunk in melancholy in his arm-chair; Mrs. Ossory red and weeping; Ossory (a British heavy father) grief-stricken; Euphemia sobbing at the table; Carr and Delhomme cold and hot respectively in their expression of sympathy. Mr. Todd is at the door, his cloak on, his hat in his hand.
Ossory. It is kind of you to have so come far to break the sad news, my dear sir. I hope that we shall see you again soon under—under—under happier circumstances.
[Todd bows very low to the company as if deeply sympathising; but turning his face to the audience, smiles as if at some secret jest. The actor should study hard to make this smile significant of the whole character, as revealed in the complete play; for Todd does not develop through, but is explained by, the plot. Todd goes out; Ossory follows, and returns in a minute. There is no sound in the room but that of Euphemia's sobs.
Ossory [returning, throws himself into a chair near the door]. Dear me! dear me! Poor, poor Henry!
Delhomme. In the very flower of his life. ...
Carr [solemnly]. Truly, my dear sir, in the midst of life we are in death.
[Euphemia looks up and darts a furious glance at him for she knows that he is mocking British solemnity and cant.
Delhomme. Crushed—crushed in a moment——
Mrs. Ossory [very piously]. Without a warning. Ah well, we must hope that——[Her voice becomes a mumble.
Delhomme. I will bid you good morning; I am sure you will not wish strangers to intrude upon your grief. If there is anything that I can do—
Mrs. Ossory [“conventionally”]. Pray do not leave us yet, Monsieur Delhomme. Lunch is just ready.
Delhomme. I really think that I should go.
[He shakes hands.
Mrs. Ossory. Good morning. We are so grateful for your sympathy and kindness. [He turns to the old man.] Grandfather is asleep.
[Delhomme shakes hands coldly with Carr, wondering why he does not offer to come with him. He goes to Euphemia.
Euphemia. [Jumps up and gives her hand, hiding her tear-stained face. She has a slight lisp.] Good morning, monsieur. [He bends over her hand and kisses it.
Delhomme. Always my sympathy and devotion, mademoiselle.
Euphemia. Thank you—thank you.
[Her real attitude to him is listlessness bordering on aversion, but constrained by politeness; he mistakes it for modesty striving with young love.]
Delhomme. Good morning, Mr. Ossory. Anything I can do, of course; anything I can do.
Ossory. Thank you, my dear lad. Anything you can do, of course—I will let you know at once. By the way, you haven’t asked her yet, I suppose?
Delhomme. Not yet, sir. I am rather diffident: I do not care to precipitate affairs.
Ossory. Well, I am really very anxious to see her future assured. And you know our proverb, “The early bird catches the worm.” [Points to him, and over his shoulder to her.] There’s our scientific friend, eh?
Delhomme. Oh, I’m not afraid of him. A “farceur,” no more, though sometimes a pleasant one.
Ossory. Tu t’en f——, ça, mon vieux chameau? Quoi?
Delhomme. [very disgusted at Ossory's vulgarity, which mistakes argot for chic]. Well, sir, as soon as I can find a favourable opportunity——
Ossory. Grief is a good mood to catch them in, my boy. I know! I know! I’ve been a bit of a dog in my time. [Shakes hands as they go out.
Delhomme. [returning]. One word in your ear, sir, if I may. It’s purely instinctive—but—but—well, sir, I misrust that man Todd!
Ossory. Thanks: I believe you may be right.
Delhomme. Good-bye, sir!
Ossory. Good-bye.
Mrs. Ossory [rising]. Alfred, that man is a devil!
Ossory. What, little Delhomme?
Mrs. Ossory. Of course not, Alfred. How can you be so silly? Todd!
Ossory. Why, whatever do you mean?
Mrs. Ossory. I don’t mean anything but what I say. He’s a devil; I’m sure of it. I know it was his fault, somehow.
Ossory. Nonsense, nonsense, my dear! He was not even in the car.
Mrs. Ossory. It was his car, Alfred.
Ossory. You’re a fool, Emily.
Carr. I think Mr. Ossory means that we could hardly hold him responsible if one of his steamers ran down a poor polar bear on a drifting iceberg.
Mrs. Ossory. I know I’m quite unreasonable; it’s an instinct, and intuition. You know Saga of Bond Street said how psychic I was!
[During the next few speeches Carr and Euphemia correspond by signs and winks.
Grandfather. When I was in Australia forty-four years ago there was a very good fellow of the name of Brown in Ballarat. Brown of Buninyong we used to call him. I remember——
Mrs. Ossory. [bursting into tears]. How can you, grandpa? Can’t you realise that poor Henry is dead?
Grandfather. Henry dead?
Mrs. Ossory. Didn’t you hear? He was run over by Mr. Todd’s motor-car this afternoon in Piccadilly.
Grandfather. There, what did I tell you? I always disliked that man Todd from the first moment that I heard his name. Dear, dear! I always knew he would bring us trouble.
Ossory. Well, this doesn’t seem to have been his fault, as far as we can see at present. But I assure you that I share your sentiments. I have heard very ill things said of him, I can tell you.
Mrs. Ossory. Who is he? Does any one know? A man of family, I hope. How dreadful for poor Henry if he had been run over by a plebeian!
Ossory. Well, we hardly know—I wonder if his credit is good. [His voice sinks to a whisper as the awful suspicion that he may be financially unsound strikes him.]
Carr. [sharply, as if pained]. Oh, oh! Don’t suggest such a thing without the very best reason. It would be too terrible! [This time Euphemia laughs.
Ossory. My dear boy, I deliberately say it. I have the very best of reasons for supposing him to be very deeply dipped. Very deeply dipped.
Carr. [Hides his head in his hands and groans, pretending to be overwhelmed by the tragedy. Looks up.] Well, I was told he other day that he held a lot of land in London, and has more tenants than the Duke of Westminster!
Ossory. Well, we’ll hope it is true. But in these days one never knows. And he leaves a very unpleasant impression wherever he goes. If I were not an Englishman I should say that the feeling I had for him was not very far removed from actual fear!
Carr. Well said, sir. Hearts of oak in the City, eh?
[Ossory glares at him suspiciously. Euphemia both enjoys the joke and is angry that her father is the butt of it.
Euphemia. Well, I’m not afraid of him—I think I rather like him. I’m sure he’s a good man, when one knows him.
Carr. Oh, Todd’s a good sort! I think I must be going, sir.
Euphemia. I wish you would stay and help me with the letters, Mr. Carr. We shall have a great deal to do in the next day or two.
Carr. Well, if you really wish it, I will try and be of what service I can.
[Carr, with his back to audience, laughs with his hands, behind it.
Mrs. Ossory. That is indeed kind of you, Professor!
[Carr's hand-laugh grows riotous.
Grandfather. Where is Nurse? I want my whisky and milk.
Mrs. Ossory. [Rings.] I shall go down to lunch, Alfred. Lunch when you like, please, everybody. I fear the house will be much upset for a day or two. You must go down to the mortuary at once. I am really too upset to do anything more.
Carr. [Over L. To Euphemia.] She hasn’t done much yet!
Euphemia. What a brute you are!
Mrs. Ossory. And we can’t possibly go to the dear Duchess on Friday!
Carr. [almost in tears]. Forgive my seeming callousness! On my honour, I never thought of that. “Sunt lachrymae rerum.”
[A nurse and a footman appear. The latter wheels Grandfather out of the room, using the greatest care not to shake him.
Grandfather. Oh, my sciatica! You careless scoundrel, you’re shaking me to pieces! Emily, do get a gentler footman. Oh! Oh! Nobody cares for the poor old man. I am thrown on the dust-heap. Oh, Emily, may you suffer one day as I suffer! Oh! Oh! Oh!
[The Nurse comes forward and soothes him.
Nurse. You must really be more careful of my patient, Thomas.
Thomas. I humbly beg pardon, miss. I think the balls is gritty, miss. I’ll ile ’em to-morrow.
Grandfather. There, you see, Nurse is the only one that loves me. I should like to marry you, Nurse, eh? And cut ’em all out?
Mrs. Ossory. [Glares at Nurse in silence, not trusting herself to speak to her.] Now, grandpa, don’t be silly! You know how we all love you! [She goes to the chair and shakes it, unseen.] Thomas, there you are again! How can you be so thoughtless?
Grandfather. Oh! Oh! Oh!
[They get him out of the room.
Mrs. Ossory [returning]. Good-bye, Mr. Carr. It is so good of you to help.
Carr. Not at all, Mrs. Ossory, not at all. I am only too glad. You should try and get a nap after lunch.
Mrs. Ossory. I will—I really think I will. [Exit.
Carr. [Closes the door, turns to Euphemia, executes a quiet hornpipe, goes to Euphemia, holds out his arms.] Sweetheart!
Euphemia. How dare you! How can you! With poor Uncle Henry lying dead!
Carr. Why have a long Latin name if you mean to play the English hypocrite? Who was poor Uncle Henry? Did you love poor Uncle Henry so dearly as all that? How old were you when your father quarrelled with poor Uncle Henry? About two and a half! The only thing you know about poor Uncle Henry is that poor Uncle Henry once tickled your toes. [Euphemia gives a little scream of horror.] Enough humbug about poor Uncle Henry! . . . Sweetheart!
Euphemia. Mine own!
[They embrace and kiss with great intensity.
Euphemia. Unhand me, villain! . . .
But one has to be decent about one’s relations. Even the humbug of it is rather fun.
Carr. There speaks the daughter of Shakespeare’s country. I am sure the Bacon imbroglio was a consummate practical joke on somebody’s part. As I see the joke, I take no side in the controversy!
But we should look on the bright side of things!
[Pompously.] Poor Uncle Henry, dead and turned to clay, May feed the Beans that keep the Bile away. Oh that whom all the world did once ignore Should purge a peer or ease an emperor!
Euphemia. But where is the bright side of our love?
Carr. Why, our love!
Euphemia. Cannot you, cannot you understand?
Carr. Not unless you tell me!
Euphemia. I can’t tell you.
Carr.—Anything I don’t know.
Euphemia. Oh, you laugh even at me!
Carr. Because I love you. So I laugh at humanity: if I took men seriously I should have to cut my throat.
Euphemia. So you don’t take me seriously either?
Carr. If I did, I should have to cut——
Euphemia. What?
Carr. My lucky!
Euphemia. What a dreadful expression! Where do you learn such things?
Carr. I notice you don’t have to ask what it means.
Euphemia. Stop teasing, darling!
Carr. I’m not teething! That’s what I complain of; you always treat me as a baby!
Euphemia. Come to his mummy, then!
Carr. You’re not my mummy! That’s what I complain of; you always treat me as a Cheops, ever since that night on the Great Pyramid!
Euphemia. [Hides her head in his bosom.] Oh shame, shame!
Carr. Not a bit of it! Think of the infinite clearness of the night—
“The magical green of the sunset, The magical blue of the Nile.”
The rising of the great globed moon—the stars starting from their fastnesses like sentries on the alarm—the isolation of our stance upon the summit—the faery distance of Cairo and its spear-sharp minarets—and we— and we—
Euphemia. Oh me! Oh me!
Carr. Shall I remind you——
Euphemia. Must I remind you?
Carr. No; my memory is excellent.
Euphemia. Of what you swore?
Carr. I swore at the granite for not being moss.
Euphemia. You swore to love me always.
Carr. The champagne at the Mena House is not champagne; it is—the cork of it is labelled “Good intentions.”
Euphemia. Then you didn’t mean it?
Carr. [kissing her]. Am I, or am I not—a plain question as between man and man—loving you now?
Euphemia. Oh, I know! But I am so worried that everything most sure seems all shaken in the storm of it! I was glad—glad, glad!—when that Mr. Todd came in with his news, so that I could have a real good cry. [Very close to him, in a tragic whisper.] Something has happened—something is going to happen.
Carr. And something has not happened—I knew it was a long time since we missed a week. By the way, have you heard the terrible news about Queen Anne? Dead, poor soul! Never mind, silly, you told me most dramatically, and it shall be counted unto you for righteousness.
Euphemia. I think you’re the greatest brute in the world—and I love you.
Carr. How reciprocal of you!
Euphemia. Sweet!
Carr. On my honour, I haven’t a single chocolate on me. Have a cigar? [Business with case.
Euphemia. Be serious! You must marry me at once.
Carr. Then how can I be serious! I understand from a gentleman named Shaw that marriage is only a joke—no, not Shaw! Vaughan, or Gorell Barnes, or some name like that!
Euphemia. But you will, won’t you?
Carr. No, I won’t, will I?
[Sings.] “I have a wife and bairnies three, And I’m no sure how ye’d agree, lassie!”
Euphemia. What? [She releases herself.
arr. Well, the wife’s dead, as a matter of fact. Her name was Hope-of-ever-doing-something-in-the-Wide-Wide. But the bairns are alive: young Chemistry, already apt at repartee—I should say retort; little Biology, who’s rather a worm between you and me and the gate-post; and poor puny, puling, sickly little Metaphysics, with only one tooth in his upper jaw!
Oh, don’t cry! I love you as I always did and always shall. I’ll see you through it somehow!
But don’t talk foolishness about marriage! We are happy because when I come to see you I come to see you. If we were living together you would soon get to know me as the brute who grumbles at the cooking and wants to shut himself up and work—[mimicking her voice] “And I wouldn’t mind so much if it were work, but all he does is to sit in a chair and smoke and stare at nothing and swear if any one comes in to ask him if my darling new old rose chiffon moiré Directoire corsets match my eau-de-Nil suede tussore appliqué garters.” See?
Euphemia. But—hush!
[She flies away to the other end of the room. The door opens. Enter Thomas.
Thomas. Mr. Delhomme would like to see you for a moment on urgent business.
[The lovers exchange signals privately.
Euphemia. Show him up.
Thomas. Yes, miss. [Thomas goes out.
Carr. I will go and get a snack. Trust me—love me——
Euphemia. I will—I do.
[They embrace. Carr goes to the door—turns.
Carr. Love me—trust me.
[Euphemia flies to him, kisses him again, nods.
Euphemia. I will—I do—I love you—I trust you.
Carr. Sweetheart! [they kiss, furtively, as if hearing footsteps.] So long!
[She retreats into the room, and blows him a kiss.
Carr. [outside, loudly]. Good morning, Miss Ossory!
Euphemia. [sinking into a chair, faintly]. Good-bye—no. no! Till—when?
[She is almost crying, but sets her teeth and rises.
Thomas. [opening the door]. Mr. Delhomme.
[Enter Delhomme.
Delhomme. I am a thousand times sorry to intrude upon your grief, Miss Ossory, but——
Euphemia. Uncle Henry was nothing to me.
Delhomme. In any case, I should not have spoken to you, but my Embassy has suddenly called me. I am to go to Constantinople—I may be a month away—and—I want to see you first.
Euphemia. Of course, to say good-bye. It is sweet of you to think of us, Monsieur Delhomme.
Delhomme. Of you—of thee. How difficult is the English language to express subtle differences!
You must have seen, Miss Ossory——
Euphemia. [dully]. I have seen nothing.
Delhomme. May I speak?
Euphemia. What is this? Oh!
Delhomme. I need not tell you, I see. My unspoken sympathy and devotion——
Euphemia. Spare me, I pray you.
Delhomme. I must speak. Mademoiselle, I am blessed in loving you. I offer you the sympathy and devotion of a lifetime.
Euphemia. I beg you to spare me. It is impossible.
Delhomme. It is the truth—it is necessary—I should kill myself if you refused.
Euphemia. My father——
Delhomme. Your respected father is my warmest advocate.
Euphemia. You distress me, sir. It is impossible.
Delhomme. Ah, fairest of maidens, well I know your English coyness and modesty! [Taking her hand.] Ah, give me this pure hand for good, for ever! This hand which has been ever open to the misery of the poor, ever closed to box the enemies of your country!
Euphemia. It is not mine!
Delhomme. I do not understand. I am too worn a slave in the world’s market for my fettered soul to grasp your innocence. Ah! you are vowed to Our Lady, perhaps? Yet, believe me—
Euphemia. Oh, sir, you distress me—indeed you distress me!
Delhomme. I would not brush the bloom from off the lily—and yet—
Euphemia. My god!—Monsieur Delhomme, I am going to shock you. Oh! Oh!
[She buries her face in her hands. He starts back, surprised at the turn things are taking, and at the violence of her emotion and of its expression.
Delhomme. What is it! Are you ill! Have I——
Euphemia. [Steady and straight before him.] I am another man’s—his—his mistress. There!
[He reels, catches a chair and saves himself. Her breast heaves; swallowing a sob, she runs out of the room.
Delhomme. [Utterly dazed]. I—I—oh, my god! My father! My God! I thought her—oh, I dare not say it— I will not think it. [On his knees, clutching at the chair.] My god, what shall I do! She was my life, my hope, my flower, my star, my sun! What shall I do! Help me! help me! Who shall console me? [He continues in silent prayer, sobbing].
[The door opens; Mr. Todd steals into the room on tiptoe, bends over him and whispers in his ear. The expression of anguish falls from his face; a calm steals over him; he smiles in beatitude and his pips move in rapture. He rises, shakes Todd by the hand; they go out together.
[Grandfather wheeled into the room by Thomas, Charley walking by him. The servant leaves them.
Grandfather. Bitter cold, Charley, for us old people! Nothing right nowadays! Oh, my poor leg! Bitter, bitter cold! I mind me, more than sixty years ago now—oh dear! oh dear! Run and tell Nurse I want my liniment! Oh dear! oh dear! what a wretched world. Sciatics—like rats gnawing, gnawing at you, Charley.
Charley. You frighten me, grampa! Why doesn’t Mr. Carr come and play with me?
Grandfather. He has gone out with your mother. He’ll come by-and-by, no doubt. Run and fetch Nurse, Charley! [Charley runs off.
Oh dear! I wish I could find a good doctor. Nobody seems to do me any good. It’s pain, pain all the time. Nurse! can’t you tell me of a good doctor? For oh! for oh! [He looks about him fearfully; his voice sinks to a thrilled whisper] I am so afraid—afraid to die! Is there nobody——
[Enter Todd, and stands by his chair, laying his hand on the old man’s shoulder. He looks up.
I wish you were a doctor, Mr. Todd. You have such a soothing touch. Perhaps you are a doctor? I can get nobody to do me any good.
[Todd whispers in his ear. The old man brightens up at once.
Why, yes! I should think that would relieve me at once. Very good! Very good!
[Todd wheels him out of the room, the old man laughing and chuckling. Enter Ossory and Euphemia, talking.
Ossory. I want to say a word, girlie, about young Delhomme. Er—well, we all grow older, you know—one day—er—ah! Nice young fellow, Delhomme!
Euphemia. I refused him twenty minutes ago, father.
Ossory. What? How the deuce did you know what I was going to say? Bless me, I believe there may be something in this psychic business after all!
Euphemia. Yes, father, I feel I have strange powers!
Ossory. But look here, girlie, why did you refuse him? Reculer pour mieux sauter is all very well, don’t you know, but he gives twice who gives quickly.
Euphemia. That’s the point, father. If you accept a man the first time he asks you it’s practically bigamy!
Ossory. But—little girl, you ought to accept him at once. He will make you an excellent husband—I wish it.
[Pompously.] It has ever been the desire of my heart to see my Phemie happily mated before I lay my old bones in the grave.
Euphemia. But I don’t love him. He’s a quirk.
Ossory. Tut! Nonsense! Appetite comes with eating.
Euphemia. But I don’t care for hors d’oeuvre.
Ossory. Euphemia, this is a very serious matter for your poor old father.
Euphemia. What have you got to do with it? Really, father——
Ossory. I have everything to do with it. The fact is, my child—here! I’ll make a clean breast of it. I’ve been gambling, and things have gone wrong. Only temporarily, of course, you understand. Only temporarily. But—oh, if I had only kept out of Fidos!
Euphemia. Is it a dog? [Whistles.] Here, Fido, Fido! Trust, doggie, trust!
Ossory. that’s it! they won’t trust, those dogs! To put it short—[a spasm of agony crosses his face]—Good Lord alive, I’m short! If I can’t find a couple of hundred thousand before the twelfth I’ll be hammered.
Euphemia. And so——?
Ossory. Very decent young fellow, little Delhomme. I can borrow half a million from him if I want it; but I don’t care to unless—unless things—unless you——
Euphemia. I’m the goods, am I? You old bear!
Ossory. I know, Phemie, I know. It’s those damned bulls on Wall Street! How could I foresee——
Euphemia. At least you might have foreseen that I was not a bale of cotton.
Ossory. But I shall be hammered, my dear child. We shall all have to go to the workhouse!
Euphemia. [coldly]. I thought mamma had three thousand a year of her own.
Ossory. That’s just what I say. The workhouse!
Euphemia. My dear father, I really can’t pity you. I think you’re a fool, and you’ve insulted me. Good morning! [She goes out.
Ossory. Oh, the disgrace of it, the shame of it! She little knows—How will the Receiver look at that Galapagos turtle deal? Receivers are damned fools. And juries are worse. Ah, Phemie, so little a sacrifice for the father who has given all for you—and she refuses! Cruel! Cruel! Which way can I turn? Is there nobody whose credit—— Let’s think. Jenkins? No good. Maur?
Too suspicious—a nasty, sly, sneaking fellow! Higginbotham, Ramspittle, Rosenbaum, Hoggenheimer, Flipp, Montgomery, MacAn—no, hang it! no hope in a Mac—Schpliechenspitzel, Togahening, Adams, Blitzenstein, Cznechzaditzch—no use. I wonder where I caught that cold! who the devil is there that I could ask?
[Enter Thomas—Ossory's back toward door.
Thomas. Mr. Todd.
[Enter Todd—Ossory doesn’t turn.
Ossory. I can’t see him, Thomas. [Turns.] I beg your pardon, Mr. Todd. The fact is, I’m damnably worried over pay-day. I don’t know you very well, but I have a sound business proposition to put before you. I think you might help me. God knows I have tried every one else. Now——
[Todd takes him by the shoulder and whispers in his ear.
Why, really, that is good of you—damned good of you! Why, damme, sir! you’re a public benefactor. Come, let us arrange the preliminaries——
[They go out, Ossory clinging tightly to Todd's arm. Enter Mrs. Ossory and Carr, dressed for walking.
Mrs. Ossory. She cut me! You saw it! She cut me absolutely dead!
Carr. Possibly she didn’t see you.
[As Mrs. Ossory is not looking, he employs a gesture which lessens the likelihood of this, by calling attention to her bulk.
Mrs. Ossory. I know she saw me. My only Duchess!
Carr. There’s better duchesses in Burke than ever came out of it, Mrs. Ossory. By the way, unless rumour lies, the jade! you can fly much higher than a paltry Duchess!
Mrs. Ossory. Why, why, what do you mean? Oh, dear Professor, how sweet of you! Or are you joking? Somehow one never knows whether you are serious or not! But you wouldn’t make fun of my embarrassments—Society is so serious, isn’t it? But, oh do! do tell me what they say!
Carr. Well, Mrs. Ossory—you know our mysterious friend?
Mrs. Ossory. Mr. Todd?
Carr. Yes. Well, they say that—he is a King in his own country.
Mrs. Ossory. And I’ve always disliked and distrusted him so! But perhaps that was just the natural awe that I suppose one must always feel, even when one doesn’t know, you know. I wonder, now, if we could get him to a little dinner. One could always pretend one didn’t know who he was! Let me see, now! Caviar de Sterlet Royale——
Carr. Consommé royale, sole à la royale, timbale royale à l’empereur, bouchées à la reine, asperges à la royale, haunch of royal venison—can’t insult him with mere baron of beef—pouding royale, glace . . . l’impératrice, canapé royale—you’ll be able to feed him all right!
Mrs. Ossory. How clever you are, Professor! Thank you so much. Now who should we ask to meet him?
Carr. I rather expect you’ll have to meet him alone!
Mrs. Ossory. Tête-à-tête! But would that be quite proper, Professor?
Carr. How very English!—all you English think that. But—royalty has its own etiquette.
[Enter Charley.
Come along, Charley boy, and show me how the new engine works!
Never mind that old frump of a Duchess, Mrs. Ossory— perhaps Mr. Todd may call. [Goes out with Charley.
Mrs. Ossory. I do hope he meant it. But he’s such a terrible man for pulling legs, as they call it.—I can’t think where Euphemia picks up all her slang!—If that plain, quiet man should really be a crowned King! Oh! how I would frown at her! Ah! ah! Somebody coming.
[Enter Thomas.
Thomas. Mr. Todd. [Enter Todd.
Mrs. Ossory. Oh, my dear Mr. Todd, I am so glad to see you! I’m in such distress! You will help me, won’t you?
[Todd bows, smiles, and whispers in her ear. She smiles all over. Todd offers his arm. She goes out on it, giggling and wriggling with pleasure. Enter Euphemia.
Euphemia. I wonder where mother is! No, I don’t want her. I’m too happy. How I love him! How proud I am—when another girl would be so shamed! I love him! I love him! Oh, what a world of ecstasy is this! To be his, and he mine! to be—oh! oh! I cannot bear the joy of it. I want to sit down and have a good cry. [Sits, crying and laughing with the joy of it.]
Oh, loving Father of all, what a world Thou hast made! What a gift is life! How much it holds of love and laughter! Is there anything more, anything better? I cannot believe it. Is there anything, anybody that could make me happier?
Thomas. Mr. Todd. [Enter Todd.
Euphemia. Good afternoon, Mr. Todd! So glad to see you! Why, how strange you look! What have you to say to me? [Todd whispers in her ear.
Euphemia. How splendid! You mean it? It is true? Better than all the rest! Come, come!
[She throws her arm round his neck and runs laughing out of the room with him.
[Enter Carr and Charley, a toy steam-engine puffing in front of them; they follow on hands and knees. The engine stops at the other end of the room.
Charley. Oh, my poor engine’s stopped!
Carr. You must pour more spirit into it.
[Charley goes to the cupboard and gets it, busying himself until Carr's exit. Carr sighs heavily, and sits down thoughtfully.
Todd’s been too frequently to this house. Well, Charley and I must get on as best we can. Life is a hard thing, my God!
“Meantime there is our life here. Well?”
It seems sometimes to me as if all the world’s wisdom were summed up in that one Epicurus phrase. For if Todd has solved all their problems with a word, at least he supplies no hint of the answer to mine. For I—it seems I hardly know what question to ask!
Oh, Charley boy, the future is with you, and with your children—or, can humanity ever solve the great secret? Is progress a delusion? Are men mad? Is the great secret truly transcendental? We are like madmen, beating out our poor brains upon the walls of the Universe.
Is there no Power that might reveal itself?
[Kneels.] Who art Thou before whom all things are equal, being as dust? Who givest his fame to the poet, his bankruptcy to the rich man? Who dost distinguish between the just and the unjust? Thou keeper of all secrets, of this great secret which I seek, and have nowise found! This secret for whose very shadowing-forth in parable I, who am young, strong, successful, beloved, most enviable of men, would throw it all away! Oh Thou who givest that which none other can give, who art Thou? How can I bargain with Thee? what shall I give that I may possess Thy secret? O question unavailing! For I know not yet Thy name! Who art Thou? Who art Thou?
Thomas [opening the door]. Mr. Todd. [Enter Todd.
Carr. [rising]. How are you? I’m afraid you find me distracted! Listen: all my life I have sought—nor counted the cost—for the secret of things. Science is baffled, for Knowledge hath no wings! Religion is baffled, for Faith hath no feet! Life itself—of what value is all this coil and tumult? Who shall give me the secret? What is the secret? [Todd whispers in his ear.
Why, thanks, thanks! What a fool I have been! I have always known who you were, of course, but how could I guess you had the key of things? Simple as ABC —or, rather, as A! And nothing to pay after all! “For of all Gods you only love not gifts.” [Ushers Todd to the door.] I follow you.
[Todd smiles kindly on him. They go out.
[The child turns; and, finding himself alone, begins to cry.
Charley. My nice man has gone away. Old Todd has taken him away. I think I hate that old Todd!
[Enter Todd.
I hate you! I hate you! Where is my nice man?
[Todd whispers in his ear.
Oh, I see. It is when people get to be grown-ups that they don’t like you any more. But I like you, Mr. Todd. Carry me pick-a-back!
[Todd takes Charley on his shoulder, and goes dancing from the room, the boy crowing with delight.
Curtain.
TRANSLATIONS
L’AMOUR ET LE CRANE
Love is seated on the skull Of humanity; And the mad, malicious fool, Laughing brazenly,
Gaily blows his bubbles high In the air apace. Will they reach the stars that lie At the end of space
The shining globe—O fragile veil! Gives one leap supreme, Breaks and spits its soul out, frail As a golden dream.
Groans the skull at every puff: “Peace, I pray thee, peace! The game is fierce and fond enough— Will it never cease?
“That which thy babe’s mouth, cruelly fain, Squanders in the scud, Monstrous assassin is my brain, My flesh and my blood!”
L’ALCHIMIE DE DOULEUR
One with his ardour makes thee tender, Another clothes thee in his grief, Nature! Saith one: “The falling leaf!” The other: “Praise October splendour!” Thou unknown Hermes that assists Me, before whom I crouch and tremble; Thou mak’st me Midas to resemble, The saddest of all alchemists!
For gold within my crucible Turns iron; and heaven turns to hell In cloudland’s ghostly napery I find a corpse—that I loved well And in celestial gardens I Build mightiest sarcophagi
LE VAMPIRE
O thou, who like a dagger-stroke Art planted in my plaintive heart, Who art come hither like a flock Of fiends, by mad and gilded art
Come, of this dark soul and discrowned To make thy bed and thy domain— Vile wretch to whom my life is bound Even as a convict to his chain,
Even as a gambler to his game, Even as a drunkard to his thirst, Even as a harlot to her shame— Be thou accurst, accurst, accurst!
I prayed the falchion’s fiery craft To win my freedom in a trice; And called the treacherous poison-draught To master me my cowardice.
Alas! Alas! disdaining me, Both sword and poison mock my mood: “Unworthy! how deliver thee From thine accursed servitude
“Imbecile! vain thy manhood’s boast! Slew we the fiend and broke thy chain, Thy kisses to its bleeding ghost Would bid thy vampire live again!”
LE BALCON
Mother of memories, and queen of queens! Thou, all my happiness! Thou, all my duty! Remember the dear hearth, the twilight screens, Thy beauty, and our passion, and thy beauty! Mother of memories, and queen of queens!
Those evenings in the firelight velvet-lined Or on the balcony, veiled by rosy wings Of mist. Thy breast was soft, thy kiss was kind. We often said imperishable things Those evenings in the firelight velvet-lined.
On summer evenings how the sun is fine! How space seems deep! How roars the heart’s red flood! I lean toward thee, adoring, queen of mine, And thought I breathed the perfume of thy blood— On summer evenings how the sun is fine!
The night fell thick and thick, a screen of sable; Mine eyes within the blackness guessed at thine. I drank thy sighs—oh poison comfortable! Thy feet slept in these brother hands of mine: The night fell thick and thick, a screen of sable.
I have the art to evoke delicious hours And live my past again between thy knees; Why should I seek thy beauty’s languorous dowers Save in thy body’s passion, thine heart’s ease I have the art to evoke delicious hours.
These vows, these scents, these kisses infinite Shall be reborn from gulfs we may not sound, So scale the sky, young suns, in choral flight, Winged from their lustral lapse in seas profound! O vows! O scents! O kisses infinite!
LE GOUT DE L’INFINI
I adore Thee as I do the Vault of Night, (O Vase of Sadness! Silence of great might!) And love Thee more that Thou escapest me Dazzling my dreams, ironic subtlety That still adds league to league—leagues limitless That keep the azure abyss from my caress!
I grip God’s throat, I grapple Him to terms— So, to a corpse, a choir of coffin-worms! Ah beast! I love thee, cruel and uncontrolled, Even to that ice that burns when fire is cold.
L’HEAUTONTIMOROUMENOS
Calm as a headsman at the block I smite thee, not for anger’s sake, Even as Moses smote the rock; And from thine eyelid I will make
Flow forth the streams of suffering To water my Sahara years, My swollen passions, maddening Shall swim upon thy sea of tears,
Like ships beyond the bar that bound, And in my heart that they enlarge With hope thy dear sobs shall resound, A drummer rattling out the “Charge!”
For am I not a discord-note In God’s great anthem—thanks to thee Black Irony with greedy throat That shaketh me, devoureth me
Through my soft voice this harpy screams! My blood, this viper-venom base! I, the black mirror by whose gleams Megaera watches her own face.
I am the wound and I the steel; I am the buffet and the ear; I am the limbs, and I the wheel, Victim and executioner!
The Vampire of my heart am I, Lord of that God-forsaken train That, damned to laugh eternally, Know they can never smile again.
LE VIN DE L’ASSASSIN
My wife is dead, and I am free! Now I can drink my whole week’s wage. I used to come home stony—she Tore my nerves with her cries of rage.
I am as happy as a king: The air is pure; the lark’s astir— We had just such another spring The year I fell in love with her.
The dreadful thirst that parches me Craves wine, wine, wine to loose its clutch: Wine, wine enough to brim with glee Her grave—and that is saying much.
I threw her body down the well! The little wall around that ran I pushed upon her as she fell. —I will forget her if I can!
By all the oaths of tenderness Whose tendrils nothing may unbind, And to bring back the enchanteress Love to the days when she was kind.
I begged of her a darkling tryst One night—a night of wind and rain. She came, poor silly devil! Pist! We are all more or less insane.
She was still beautiful, although So tired. Still sweet! still pale! still shy! I loved her overmuch—and so “Out of this life you go!” said I.
No one can understand me. None Of these dull drunkards could divine In nightmares this that I have done —To make a winding-sheet of wine!
This black invulnerable vice —Engines of iron! towers of stone!— For winter’s blight or summer’s spice True love, true love hath never known—
True love with black inchauntments filled, Its hellish rout of shrieks and groans, Its phials of poison death-distilled, Its rattling chains and skeletons!
Here am I, free, alone—alone! I shall be drunk, dead drunk, to-night. Then I shall slip to the cold stone Without remorse, without affright;
And I shall sleep—yes, like a dog! The lumbering wagon with its weight Of wheel, its load of stone or log, May well come crawling—it is fate!
Crush my curs’d head—cut me in half! The guilty soul, the swinish clod! I laugh at it—laugh as I laugh A t the body and the blood of God!
WOMAN
The whole wide world is meat-of-murderess For thee, foul woman, cruel from idleness. To whet thy teeth at this ferocious play Thy rat-trap needs a man’s heart every day. Thine eyes, lit up like shops or booths that flare When all the world keeps holiday, still glare, Using a borrowed power with insolence, Ignoring beauty’s law that lent them sense. Blind wheel and deaf, of Hell in travail curled! Brave tool that drinks the blood of all the world! Hast thou no shame? and hast thou no alarm Whose mirror shows thee thy decaying charm? Hath not the vastness of the evil thing Thou think’st thee wise of, sent thee shuddering When Nature—grand, persistent, tenebrous— Uses thee, woman, thee, princess of pus, Vile animal!—to slay a genius? O golden mire! fame ignominious!
TOUT ENTIÈRE
The Devil is my lofty vault This morning came to talk with me. And (ever trying to find fault) Said “ I should like to know, pardie!
“Of all the beauties that compose The enchantment of her darling breath, The black seductions and the rose Wherewith her body glittereth,
“Which is the sweetest?” O my soul! Thus didst thou answer the Accurst: “In her, since all’s divine control, There cannot be or last or first.
“Since all transports me, how shall I Aught of one thing affirm aright? She dazzles like the morning sky And soothes my spirit like the night.
“Too exquisite the music is That all her lovely shape affords For impotent analysis To mark how every bar accords.
“O mystic metamorphosis! Silk woven in the senses’ loom Her breath the soul of music is, Her voice the spirit of perfume!”
LE VIN DES AMANTS
Space is glorious to-day! Throw bridle, bit, and spurs away! Let us seek, astride of Wine, A Heaven faery and divine!
Like twin angels in dismay, Smit by Godhead’s blistering ray, Where dawn lurks blue and crystalline, Seek the mirage in the shrine!
Softly poised upon the wing Of the whirlwind let us ride, With its madness sway and swing, Sister, swimming side by side; Onward through the starry streams Toward the Heaven of my dreams!
LE REVENANT
Like angels lion-eyed that rove I shall return to thine alcove, Gliding with silent step and light Like the shadows of the night.
And I will give thee, dusky dove! Cold as the moon, these lips of love; And seek caresses, like a snake Playing round a crystal lake.
At the pallid moon’s disgrace Empty thou shalt find my place That shall be cold till night appear.
As others’ tenderness and truth Desire to rule thy life, thy youth, So will I dominate by fear!
LOLA DE VALENCE
(IMITATION)
You have so many charms; my brain, my breast Find it surpassing hard to choose the best; But—if I must!—then let my song declare The sweet, shy rosebud in your crisp black hair!
LE BEAU NAVIRE
I will recount to thee, enchantress smooth! The varied beauties that adorn thy youth, And paint for thee thy loveliness Where infancy and womanhood caress.
Sweeping the air with that broad skirt, to me Is imaged some tall ship that puts to sea With canvas spread, that treads a measure Of love-in-idleness and peace-with-pleasure!
On shining shoulder and soft rounded throat Thy poised head sways—strange grace of melilote With a triumphant air and mild Thou passest on thy way, majestic child!
I will recount to thee, enchantress smooth, The varied beauties that adorn thy youth, And paint for thee thy loveliness Where infancy and womanhood caress.
Thy bosom juts its jubilance of jet Triumphant, like a noble cabinet Whose clear and polished panels fling Back like bright shields the lightnings of the Spring.
Challenging shields, with rosy bosses starred! Wardrobe of tender secrets, filled with nard, Wines, scents, liqueurs, a Comus train Fit to intoxicate man’s heart and brain.
Sweeping the air with that broad skirt, to me Is imaged some tall ship that puts to sea With canvas spread, that treads a measure Of love-in idleness and peace-with-pleasure!
Strong limbs that toss aside their tented veil Brew acrid draughts of madness, darkly male, Like two black witch-women that turn And stir some ghastly philtre in their urn.
Thine arms—could strangle a young Hercules!— Rival and beat the python’s strength-in-ease; Made to crush—obstinately sure To print him in thine heart, thy paramour!
On shining shoulder and soft rounded throat Thy posed head sways—strange grace of melilote! With a triumphant air and mild Thou passest on thy way, majestic child!
L’INVITATION AU VOYAGE
My sister, my child, How sweet to the wild To travel and live there together! At leisure to lie, To love and to die In thine own strange native weather! The watery suns Of those hot horizons Have the mystical charm of the years That mysterious lies In thy traitorous eyes As they glitter behind their tears.
There, all is peace and ecstasy; Pleasure, calm, and luxury!
Furniture fine That the years make shine Shall stand in our own bedchamber. The rarest flowers Shed their scented showers To tinge the vague rapture of amber.
Arabesque is the ceiling. The mirrors? revealing An Orient shining in splendour— How it all whispers The spirit’s vespers In its speech—slow, secret, and tender!
There, all is peace and ecstasy; Pleasure, calm, and luxury!
The canals? See yonder Ships (glad to wander) Sleep sound with their wings close-furled! It is to fulfil Thy lightest will That they come from the end of the world. The sun as it falls Clothes the fields, the canals, The city itself in a robe Of azure and gold— The warm light shall enfold With slumber the passionate globe.
There, all is peace and ecstasy; Pleasure, calm, and luxury!
EPILOGUE TO “PETITS POEMES EN PROSE”
Mine heart at ease, I climbed the promontory Whence one may contemplate the town out-spread: Hospital, brothel, jail, hell, purgatory,
Where each thing monstrous rears its prospered head! Well know’st Thou, Satan (ease this woe of mine!) I went not thither futile tears to shed;
But, an old lecher with’s old concubine, To madden sense on the enormous bitch Whose hellish charm pours youth from me like wine!
Whether thou sleep in morning’s sheets (dear witch!) Heavy, obscure, and chill; or preen thee, vain, In evening’s veils, with gold embroidery rich,
Infamous Capital, I love thee! Drain Whose thieves and whores give me to ease life’s itch Pleasures inscrutable to the profane!
COLLOQUE SENTIMENTAL
In the ancient frozen solitary park Two figures passed anon—now mark!
Their eyes are dead, their lips are soft and grey; One scarce can hear the words they say.
In the ancient frozen solitary part Two ghosts evoke the past—oh hark!
“Dost thou remember our old ecstasy?” “Why do you wish to remind me?”
“Does thy heart beat still at my name, and glow? “Seest thou my soul in dreams, dear?” “No.”
“Ah! the fair days of joyaunce and of gree “When our mouths kissed, ah kissed!” “Maybe!”
“How blue the sky was, as our hope was clear!” “Hope has gone down to Hell’s nadir.”
So in the foolish alleys they conferred, And only midnight overheard.
EN SOURDINE
Calm in the twilight of the lofty boughs Pierce we our love with silence as we drowse;
Melt we our souls, hearts, senses in this shrine, Vague languor of arbutus and of pine!
Half-close your eyes, your arms upon your breast; Banish for ever every interest!
The cradling breeze shall woo us, soft and sweet, Ruffling the waves of velvet at your feet.
When solemn night of swart oaks shall prevail Voice our despair, musical nightingale!
THE MAGICIAN
[TRANSLATED FROM ELIPHAZ LEVI’S VERSION OF THE FAMOUS HYMN]
O lord, deliver me from hell’s great fear and gloom! Loose thou my spirit from the larvæ of the tomb! I seek them in their dread abodes without affright: On them will I impose my will, the law of light.
I bid the night conceive the glittering hemipshere. Arise, O sun, arise! O moon, shine white and clear! I seek them in their dread abodes without affright: On them will I impose my will, the law of light.
Their faces and their shapes are terrible and strange. These devils by my might to angels I will change. These nameless horrors I address without affright: On them will I impose my will, the law of light.
These are the phantoms pale of mine astonied view, Yet none but I their blasted beauty can renew; For to the abyss of hell I plunge without affright: On them will I impose my will, the law of light.
GLOSSARY OF OBSCURE TERMS
Used in Stanza 3 of Dedication
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