The priests with hooves, the lovers with horns, Rise in the starlight, one by one, They draw their knives on the spurting throats, They smear the column with blood of goats, They dabble the blood on hair and lips And wait like stones for the moon's eclipse. They stand like stones and stare at the sky Where the moon leers down like a half-closed eye. . . In the green moonlight still they stand While wind flows over the darkened sand And brood on the soft forgotten things That filled their shadowy yesterdays. . . . Where are the breasts, the scarlet wings? . . . . They gaze at each other with troubled gaze. . . . And then, as the shadow closes the moon, Shout, and strike with their hooves the ground, And rush through the dark, and fill the night With a slowly dying clamor of sound. There, where the great walls crowd the stars, There, by the black wind-riven walls, In a grove of twisted leafless trees. . . . Who are these pilgrims, who are these, These three, the one of whom stands upright, While one lies weeping and one of them crawls? The face that he turned was a wounded face, I heard the dripping of blood on stones. . . . Hooves had trampled and torn this place, And the leaves were strewn with blood and bones. Sometimes, I think, beneath my feet, The warm earth stretches herself and sighs. . . . Listen! I heard the slow heart beat. . . . I will lie on this grass as a lover lies And reach to the north and reach to the south And seek in the darkness for her mouth. * * * * * Beloved, beloved, where the slow waves of the wind Shatter pale foam among great trees, Under the hurrying stars, under the heaving arches, Like one whirled down under shadowy seas, I run to find you, I run and cry, Where are you? Where are you? It is I. It is I. It is your eyes I seek, it is your windy hair, Your starlight body that breathes in the darkness there. Under the darkness I feel you stirring. . . . Is this you? Is this you? Bats in this air go whirring. . . . And this soft mouth that darkly meets my mouth, Is this the soft mouth I knew? Darkness, and wind in the tortured trees; And the patter of dew. * * * * *