VII
If we are weary, it is flesh that faints.
We cannot bear such worlds of happiness.
Even in this torture that consumes and taints,
We writhe in bliss, one terrible caress
Of the great Gods of Hell. Ah! surely, dear,
Our way is wise, transcending human woe:
We are most happy and of great good cheer.
What do we know? It matters not. We know.
This is enough, that we have slain the Sphinx,
Worked out her wizardry, dissolved her doom;
And though her wine be death to him that drinks
We shall carouse for ever in the tomb.
We drank bull's blood; and all our pangs immense
Are better than eupeptic innocence.
We cannot bear such worlds of happiness.
Even in this torture that consumes and taints,
We writhe in bliss, one terrible caress
Of the great Gods of Hell. Ah! surely, dear,
Our way is wise, transcending human woe:
We are most happy and of great good cheer.
What do we know? It matters not. We know.
This is enough, that we have slain the Sphinx,
Worked out her wizardry, dissolved her doom;
And though her wine be death to him that drinks
We shall carouse for ever in the tomb.
We drank bull's blood; and all our pangs immense
Are better than eupeptic innocence.
— 123 —
