to barbarian orisons
Of dull hearth-loving hearts, mistaking me:
Yet from mine incense ye shall not divorce
Remembrance. Fools, these recantations be
Ardours that prove you still idolators;
And, though ye hurry through the circling hells
Of bright ambition like hopes and energies,
That haste bewrays you. My great doctrine dwells
Immortal in those fevered heresies,
And all the inversions of my rites proclaim
The mournful memory of mine altar-flame."
White house of night, too much the ghosts come through
Your crazy doors, to vex and startle me,
Touching with curious fingers cold as dew
Kissing with unloved kisses fierily
That dwell, slow fever, through my veins all day,
And fill my senses as the dead their graves.
They are builded in my castles and bridges? Yea,
Not therefore must my dreams become their slaves.
If once we passed some kindness, mu