THE SONG OF MELANCHOLY 437
Not become an image, A statue of a God ; Not set up in front of temples, A God's usher.
Nay ! an enemy unto such statues of virtue, More at home in any wilderness than in temples, Full of a cat's wantonness, Leaping through every window, Swiftly, into every chance, Led by its scent into every primeval forest, In order to roam about in primeval forests, Among many-coloured shaggy beasts of prey, Sinfully-healthy and beautiful and many-coloured, To run about with longing lips, Blissfully-mocking, blissfully-hellish, blissfully-blood- thirsty, Preying, stealing, lying.
Or like the eagle that long,
Long gazeth benumbed into abysses,
Into its own abysses !
Oh, how they here wriggle downwards,
Down, down
Into ever deeper depths !
Then,
Suddenly,
With straight flight,
With a sharp attack,
�� �
