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PSALM
PSALM
My beloved is a well of clear waters,To which I have come at noontide,From the land of the Abomination of Desolation,From the lion-dreaded waste,Where nothing dwelleth but the inconsolable crying of an evil wind,And the wandering realms and cities of the wide mirage;Where no one passeth except the sun,Who walked like a terrible god through the hell of the brazen skies;And the dreadful cohorts of the constellations,Who pass remote in alien years,And clad with icy azures of unattainable distance.
My beloved is a singing fountain,Set in a wide oasis,Between the frondage of the fruitful palm,And the branches of the flowering myrtle:The wind that bloweth thereon,Hath lain in a vale of cassia and myrrh,And caressed the vermillion blossoms of the pomegranate,Whose red is the red of the lips of Astarte;A thousand nightingales are gathered there,From all the gardens of lost romance;And plots of purple and silver lillies,More beautiful than the meadows of mirage,Revive the flowers of Sabean queens,And the blossoms worn by all the princesses of legend.***Ah, suffer me to dwellThereby, and forget the gilded cities of desire,The domes of spectral gold,That fled from horizon to horizon
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