Classic Poem

In the forgiving moonlight, on a marble slab of the morgue
A woman lies, whiter than the marble.
Colder than the moon.
There is a blot upon her.
Has Love turned murderer?
Who has put a blot upon her whiteness?
Has the moon done this or the sun or the stars?
Or the majesty which made sun and moon and earth
And belted Orion?
She were not shamed unless Man shamed her.
And what is man that he
Dare shame the vilest thing that lives?
The beasts of the field have purer knowledge,
Knowing that motherhood for love is sufficient,
And Love for motherhood is sufficient.
Does a god slay his god-head?
But man defiles motherhood.
Do the keepers of Life willingly
Deliver Life unto Death?
Have the keepers of the blood,
That wondrous juice which has crept
From out the farthest rift of Time,
Chosen to pollute the blood?
Have the mothers of children,
Chosen to destroy the child?
Man and his ignoble laws have done
These blasphemies.
It is beautiful to see a bitch
Anxiously huddle her puppies;
A cow lick her trembling calf
With adoration.
The shy doe of the wilderness
Will return to her death
At the bleat of her fawn.
Only Man compels motherhood to the morgue;
And mother-joy to the abortion-chamber,
The mothers degraded and the children degraded.
Yet if one be degraded, all are degraded.
When the roots perish the buds must wither.
If but one perish by a lie, the lie must perish,
Or all will perish. Marriage is a lie
That defiles the sanctity of love.
Like the stars, certain in their appointments,
Retribution will come in its unvarying circle.

Love, creator of Creation;
Maker of all;
Sovereign of the soul;
Mysterious mechanic;
Gardener of the world;
Laughing fisherman gathering all
Within your net;
Master of the Universe,
Riding the stars for steeds;
Whirling the suns,
Binding the rebellious comets;
Holding the Unknown captive.
You are the all divine
And from you nothing not divine,
Shall Man with his crooked fingers,
Like a child upon the beach,
Build a sand-rampart to hold
The furious surges of the sea?
Shall the spotted lizard of the desert
Control the pilgrimage of the stars,
Master the pregnant tides,
Or turn the rivers back
To their inaudible beginnings?
Man may squint at the heavens,
Dance before his own shadow,
Cherish his ignorance as sacred,
And bow before his puppets,
But he cannot control Love.
Love is the Beginning and the End is Love.
And the mummeries of Man are sacrilege.

By the great Original
Who stirred the slime primeval,
Shall a mincing monkey invade the garden
Of the gods and with a dirty finger
Touch amorous lilies, tulips and orchids
Which float their fragrant invitations on the air,
Smirking, " This shall be moral; this immoral.
" This shall be pure; this impure? "
I will pronounce the mysteries.

Who shall declare any love impure?
Love, the perfect purity of Creation.
The clock of the Heavens is set for eternity.
And the infinite Ages are but a point on a line
From infinity to infinity, without beginning and without end.
Man has never flown with wings,
But slowly, as a snail, he has zigzagged along this infinite.
Groping, reaching, trying, feebly feeling, yet still crawling upward.
What though the sun perish and in the gathering chill
Man slowly fall back to his end.
Has he not triumphed? Has he not borne fruit?
The soul of Man at its greatest flowering:
Sends perfume to the stars.

I will be my own moralist and my lamp shall be Love.
I will follow Love like a little child who stumbles,
Holding the hand of its mother.