Beneath a putrid mount of bone,
And tombs grow dank as rising sun
Makes red each dragon in the West,
She splits his heart and rasps with might,
A curse that rides the surging foam,
A message that this dastard son
Dies longing for a fatal quest—
Surcease of soul and conscience lost!
Then rants she sins unto each tomb
That sweat the lusts of those in dust,
And scarlet foam and hiss of oils
That her black deed to domes hath tossed,
Break into writhing life and bloom
As iron crowns and ceptres rust
Of fall'n monarchs crossed in coils.
Anear, two carcants glare like gold;
Afar, a ruby's light of red
Straggles thro' the pellicléd mist,
And to its vinewed dell haste I,
To catch the fleeting whispers told
To marble-lamps and head-stones, said,
