From holy flower to holy flowerThou weavest thine unhallowed bower.The harmless dewdrops, beaded thin,Ripple along thy ropes of sin.Thy house a grave, a gulf thy throneAffright the fairies every one.Thy winding sheets are grey and fell,Imprisoning with nets of hellThe lovely births that winnow by,Winged sisters of the rainbow sky:Elf-darlings, fluffy, bee-bright things,And owl-white moths with mealy wings,And tiny flies, as gauzy thinAs e'er were shut electrum in.These are thy death spoils, insect ghoul,With their dear life thy fangs are foul.Thou felon anchorite of painWho sittest in a world of slain.Hermit, who tunest song unsweetTo heaving wing and writhing feet.A glutton of creation's sighs,Miser of many miseries.Toper, whose lonely feasting chairSways in inhospitable air.The board is bare, the bloated hostDrinks to himself toast after toast.His lip requires no goblet brink,But like a weasel must he drink.The vintage is as old as timeAnd bright as sunset, pressed and prime.
Ah, venom mouth and shaggy thighsAnd paunch grown sleek with sacrifice,Thy dolphin back and shoulders roundCoarse-hairy, as some goblin houndWhom a hag rides to sabbath on,While shuddering stars in fear grow wan.Thou palace priest of treachery,Thou type of selfish lechery,I break the toils around thy headAnd from their gibbets take thy dead.
