Shine and Dark

And I have sat amid the turbulent crowd,
And have assisted at their boisterous play;
I have unbent myself and shouted loud
And been as blatant and as coarse as they.

I have consorted with vulgarity
And am indelibly marked with its fell kiss,
Meanly I lived upon casual charity
Eagerly drinking of the dregs of bliss.

Yea, for this love of mine
I have given all I had;
For she was passing fair,
And I was passing mad.

All flesh, it is said,
Shall wither as the grass;
The fuel for the oven
Shall be consumed, alas!

Of thy dark life, without a love, without a friend,
   Here is, indeed, an end.
There are no lips to kiss this foul remains of thee,
   O, dead Unchastity!
The curse of loneliness broods silent on thee still,
   Doing its utmost will,
And men shall cast thee justly to thy narrow tomb,
   A sad and bitter doom.

'Requiem eternam dona ei, Domine';
Silently, sorrowfully I bent down my head,
For I had hated him -- a poor creature of clay:
And all my envious, bitter cruel thoughts that came
Out of the past and stood by the bier whereon he lay
Pointed their long, lean fingers through the gloom...
   O Name,
Ineffable, proud Name to whom the cries ascend
From lost, angelical orders, seraph flame to flame
For this end have I hated him -- for this poor end?

I intone the high anthem,
Partaking in their festival.
Swing out, swing in, the night is dark,
Magical hair, alive with glee,
Winnowing spark after spark,
Star after star, rapturously.
Toss and toss, amazing arms;
Witches, weave upon the floor
Your subtle-woven web of charms...

Some are comely and some are sour,
Some are dark as wintry mould,
Some are fair as a golden shower.
To music liquid as a stream
They move with dazzling symmetry;
Their flashing limbs blend in a gleam
Of luminous-swift harmony.
They wear gold crescents on their heads,
Hornèd and brilliant as the moon...

Wind thine arms round me, woman of sorcery,
While the lascivious music murmurs afar:
I will close mine eyes, and dream as I dance with thee,
And pass away from the world where my sorrows are.
Faster and faster! strike the harps in the hall!
Woman, I fear that this dance is the dance of death!
Faster!-- ah, I am faint... and, ah, I fall.
The distant music mournfully murmureth...

Let us fling to the winds all moping and madness,
Play us a jig in the spirit of gladness
On the creaky old squeaky strings of the fiddle.

The why of the world is an answerless riddle
Puzzlesome, tiresome, hard to unriddle.
To the seventeen devils with sapient sadness:
   Tra la, tra la.