XII
There gods descend; there devils rise. We dance,
Dance to the madness of the waning moon,
Write centuries of murder in a glace,
Chiliads of rape in one unearthly tune.
There is the sacrament of sin unveiled
And there the abortion of Demeter eaten,
The potion of black Dione distilled,
The measure of Pan by whirling women beaten.
These are but symbols, and our souls the truth;
These sacraments, and we the gods of them;
The sabbath incense curls to us to soothe
Our spleen, engarlands us, a diadem
For that unutterable deed that hurled
Us, flaming thunderbolts! against the world.
Dance to the madness of the waning moon,
Write centuries of murder in a glace,
Chiliads of rape in one unearthly tune.
There is the sacrament of sin unveiled
And there the abortion of Demeter eaten,
The potion of black Dione distilled,
The measure of Pan by whirling women beaten.
These are but symbols, and our souls the truth;
These sacraments, and we the gods of them;
The sabbath incense curls to us to soothe
Our spleen, engarlands us, a diadem
For that unutterable deed that hurled
Us, flaming thunderbolts! against the world.
— 14 —
