BATHYLLUS

TO SLIMAN BIN CHIRCH

Published in the U.K. Vanity Fair

London, England

circa 1909

          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 !