Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit
and soul of our senses
Sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the
semblance and sound of a sigh;
Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and
triangular tenses--
Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the
dawn of the day when we die.
Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory melodiously mute
as it may be,
While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of
men's rapiers resigned to the rod;
Made meek as a mother whose bosom--beats bound with the bliss--
bringing bulk of a balm--breathing baby,
As they grope through the grave-yards of creeds, under skies
growing green'at a groan for the grimness of God.
Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old and its binding
is blacker than bluer:
Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their
dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things;
Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that
is freed from the fangs that pursue her,
Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the
hunt that has harried the kernel of kings.
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