Wind round his head the figured coins! stain with red fruits those pallid lips!
Weave purple for his shrunken hips! and purple for his barren loins!
Away to Egypt! Have no fear.Only one God has ever died.
Only one God has let His side be wounded by a soldier's spear.
But these, thy lovers, are not dead.Still by the hundred-cubit gate Dog-faced Anubis sits in state with lotus-lilies for thy head.
Still from his chair of porphyry gaunt Memnon strains his lidless eyes Across the empty land, and cries each yellow morning unto thee.
And Nilus with his broken horn lies in his black and oozy bed And till thy coming will not spread his waters on the withering corn.
Your lovers are not dead, I know.They will rise up and hear your voice And clash their cymbals and rejoice and run to kiss your mouth! And so,Set wings upon your argosies! Set horses to your ebon car!
Back to your Nile! Or if you are grown sick of dead divinitiesFollow some roving lion's spoor across the copper-coloured plain, Reach out and hale him by the mane and bid him be your paramour!
Couch by his side upon the grass and set your white teeth in his throat And when you hear his dying note lash your long flanks of polished brassAnd take a tiger for your mate, whose amber sides are flecked with black, And ride upon his gilded back in triumph through the Theban gate,And toy with him in amorous jests, and when he turns, and snarls, and gnaws, O smite him with your jasper claws! and bruise him with your agate breasts!
Why are you tarrying? Get hence! I
weary of your sullen ways, I weary of your steadfast gaze, your somnolent magnificence.
Your horrible and heavy breath makes the light flicker in the lamp, And on my brow I feel the damp and dreadful dews of night and death.
Your eyes are like fantastic moons that shiver in some stagnant lake, Your tongue is like a scarlet snake that dances to fantastic tunes,Your pulse makes poisonous melodies, and your black throat is like the hole Left by some torch or burning coal on Saracenic tapestries.
Away! The sulphur-coloured stars are hurrying through the Western gate!
Away! Or it may be too late to climb their silent silver cars!
See, the dawn shivers round the grey gilt-dialled towers, and the rain Streams down each diamonded pane and blurs with tears the wannish day.
What snake-tressed fury fresh from Hell, with uncouth gestures and unclean, Stole from the poppy-drowsy queen and led you to a student's cell?
What songless tongueless ghost of sin crept through the curtains of the night, And saw my taper burning bright, and knocked, and bade you enter in?
Are there not others more accursed, whiter with leprosies than I?
Are Abana and Pharphar dry that you come here to slake your thirst?
Get hence, you loathsome mystery! Hideous animal, get hence!
You wake in me each bestial sense, you make me what I would not be.
You make my creed a barren sham, you wake foul dreams of sensual life, And Atys with his blood-stained knife were better than the thing I am.
False Sphinx! False Sphinx! By reedy Styx old Charon, leaning on his oar, Waits for my coin.Go thou before, and leave me to my crucifix,Whose pallid burden, sick with pain, watches the world with wearied eyes, And weeps for every soul that dies, and weeps for every soul in vain.
Poem: The Ballad Of Reading Gaol(In memoriam C.T.W.
Sometime trooper of the Royal Horse Guards obiit H.M.prison, Reading, Berkshire July 7, 1896)I
He did not wear his scarlet coat, For blood and wine are red, And blood and wine were on his hands When they found him with the dead, The poor dead woman whom he loved, And murdered in her bed.
He walked amongst the Trial Men In a suit of shabby grey;A cricket cap was on his head, And his step seemed light and gay;But I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the day.
I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky, And at every drifting cloud that went With sails of silver by.
I walked, with other souls in pain, Within another ring, And was wondering if the man had done A great or little thing, When a voice behind me whispered low, 'THAT FELLOW'S GOT TO SWING.'
Dear Christ! the very prison walls Suddenly seemed to reel, And the sky above my head became Like a casque of scorching steel;And, though I was a soul in pain, My pain I could not feel.
I only knew what hunted thought Quickened his step, and why He looked upon the garish day With such a wistful eye;The man had killed the thing he loved, And so he had to die.
Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword!
Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old;Some strangle with the hands of Lust, Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little, some too long, Some sell, and others buy;Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die.
He does not die a death of shame On a day of dark disgrace, Nor have a noose about his neck, Nor a cloth upon his face, Nor drop feet foremost through the floor Into an empty space.
He does not sit with silent men Who watch him night and day;Who watch him when he tries to weep, And when he tries to pray;Who watch him lest himself should rob The prison of its prey.
He does not wake at dawn to see Dread figures throng his room, The shivering Chaplain robed in white, The Sheriff stern with gloom, And the Governor all in shiny black, With the yellow face of Doom.
He does not rise in piteous haste To put on convict-clothes, While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes Each new and nerve-twitched pose, Fingering a watch whose little ticks Are like horrible hammer-blows.
He does not know that sickening thirst That sands one's throat, before The hangman with his gardener's gloves Slips through the padded door, And binds one with three leathern thongs, That the throat may thirst no more.
