Lucretia
As one who in the cold abyss of night
Stares at a book whose grey print meaningless
Dances between the lamplight and his eyes,
Lucretius lay, soul-poisoned, conquering still
With towering travail Reason's Hellene heights.
Listen, Lucretia, to the voice of his pain:
Thrice welcome hour of Reason: ne’er of old
Knew I thy naked loveliness, till night,
The nether night of Folly pinioned forth,
Shrouded my senses, taught me terribly
That thou alone, my light and life and love,
Wearest the high insignia of the stars.
Grant then thy worshipper, austerest Queen,
Refreshing dews–Now, now, I thirst with flame:
They flee the strainings of my fevered lips
Cruelly, and in dank distance a new noise
Of rushing wings I hear. Who thunders nigh?
Devil delirium, chaos charioted,
Curb, curb, the coal-red chargers, heard not seen.
See, Madam Wife, that loveless lust of thine
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