Rest thy limbs, O, god of my soul. 

Drink of the unquenchable draught of caresses; 

Tear the flowers of my dreams and fancies; 

Scatter the sacred petals of my passion

To the four winds of thy rejoicing.

Thy rejoicing, that one festival of the High Gods,

Where no offering that I bring ever be too dear,

Where no soul burnt in the fire of senses can perish;

Where no suffering fails to be mother and daughter of joy.

Take all, great God among these Gods:

The pearl of my woman-soul buried in deeps of passion,

The coral-wreath from the ocean of my bleeding heart;

And ravish with exquisite merciless touch

The one star in my heaven that has led thee hither—

My life's eternity in this worship of an hour.

[22]

[22]

18

THE INFIRM BEGGAR SINGS

Broken and bruised by the hand of Fate,

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