III
See! to be God is to be lost to God.
That which I cling to is my proper essence;
Nor is there aught at any period
That may endure the horror of my presence.
I conjure up dim gods; how frail and thin!
How fast they slip from this appalling level!
This is the wage of the fellatrix Sin
Drunk on the icy death-sperm of the Devil.
I were a maniac did I contemplate
The outward glory and the inward terror,
Sick with the hideous light myself create
From the dark certainty of gloom and error.
For I am that I am—behold! this 'I'
Hath nothing constant it may measure by.
That which I cling to is my proper essence;
Nor is there aught at any period
That may endure the horror of my presence.
I conjure up dim gods; how frail and thin!
How fast they slip from this appalling level!
This is the wage of the fellatrix Sin
Drunk on the icy death-sperm of the Devil.
I were a maniac did I contemplate
The outward glory and the inward terror,
Sick with the hideous light myself create
From the dark certainty of gloom and error.
For I am that I am—behold! this 'I'
Hath nothing constant it may measure by.
— 85 —
