So I scatter, so implore

Gods of Crete, summoned before

with slighter craft;

ah, hear my prayer:

Grant to my soul

the body that it wore,

trained to your thought,

that kept and held your power,

as the petal of black poppy,

the opiate of the flower.

For art undreamt in Crete,

strange art and dire,

in counter-charm prevents my charm

limits my power:

pine-cone I heap,

grant answer to my prayer.

No more, my soul—

as the black cup, sullen and dark with fire,

burns till beside it, noon's bright heat

is withered, filled with dust—

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