Classic Poem

In the mytic eastern forest
Where pomegranates' blood-red lips
Here and there in the green twilight
Gaped like moons in fierce eclipse;

In his gorgeous domed Eden,
In the lustrous southern wood,
Thoughtful, eager, swarthy, subtle,
There the Semite father stood.

Twitched the brown hands, long and cunning,
Hands that, labouring night and day,
Piled the weird colossal temples
That the ages cannot slay.

Gleamed in eyes like antique jewels
Things then hid from human ken,
Sudden voices, starry visions,
Prayers and laws of mighty men.

“Are not all things mine to rule them,
Fruits and foliage, moon and star,
Am I not the latest, holiest,
Wisest of the things that are?”

Loud his cry was through the forest;
It was echoed by a cry
From his slighter, gentler help-mate
Gathering reeds her bower anigh.

And between them lay a creature,
Gyre on gyre, a burning thing,
Evil-eyed and subtle-coloured,
As of rainbows, ring on ring.

Whirred the pigeons from the cedar,
Crashed the coveys from the brake,
Lonely, lurid, fear-inspiring,
Thus it raised its voice and spake:

“Are not all things thine to govern,
Art not thou the lord of dust,
Stronger than the laws that made thee,
Subtler than the Powers that trust?

“Grasp the reins of power and passion,
Be as gods are where you stand,
Master pleasure, vengeance, knowledge,
Lo, the fruit is to your hand.”

Smitten, swayed with fierce temptation,
Thrice he bowed and groped, afraid,
Then his hand, abrupt, presumptuous,
—On the great pomegranate laid,

Came an utter darkness, noisy
With the crashing of great woods,
Earth's foundation choked and cloven
With the roaring of old floods.

Screamed the chaos, screamed and dwindled
And the twain, the fallen stand,
Hand-in-hand upon the deserts
Of a pathless morning land.