Poetry

Upreared in the night, pallid-gray ’gainst the moon, towers she they call Astoreth, goddess of flesh and of worms, older

The wafir of Time I have bitten—sweet it was not. Each tapir of thought stood at flare in my soul—and

I reject Love— Love and its sibillant, low-murmured lies, sweet sting of fair bodies, old meat of old Death. The

Night and the Sea and the depths of Despair! The gulfs of Time, the moaning of wastrel souls, the ullulation

My soul fell asleep, asleep in a great city, among the leering faces of her millions; The iron hoofs of

I wait for THEE in vile places a little while and wait for THEE in high places a long while.

The great GOD sleeps and dreams through Me, And cycles run and cycles ebb and still IT blossoms in my