And like a wave the maggots rose and fell, The murmuring flies swirled round in busy strife: It seemed as though a vague breath came to swell And multiply with life The hideous corpse. From all this living world A music as of wind and water ran, Or as of grain in rhythmic motion swirled By the swift winnower's fan. And then the vague forms like a dream died out, Or like some distant scene that slowly falls Upon the artist's canvas, that with doubt He only half recalls. A homeless dog behind the boulders lay And watched us both with angry eyes forlorn, Waiting a chance to come and take away The morsel she had torn. And you, even you, will be like this drear thing, A vile infection man may not endure; Star that I yearn to! Sun that lights my spring! O passionate and pure! Yes, such will you be, Queen of every grace! When the last sacramental words are said; And beneath grass and flowers that lovely face Moulders among the dead. Then, O Beloved, whisper to the worm That crawls up to devour you with a kiss, That I still guard in memory the dear form Of love that comes to this! AN ALLEGORY. Here is a woman, richly clad and fair, Who in her wine dips her long, heavy hair; Love's claws, and that sharp poison which is sin, Are dulled against the granite of her skin. Death she defies, Debauch she smiles upon, For their sharp scythe-like talons every one Pass by her in their all-destructive play; Leaving her beauty till a later day. Goddess she walks; sultana in her leisure; She has Mohammed's faith that heaven is pleasure, And bids all men forget the world's alarms Upon her breast, between her open arms. She knows, and she believes, this sterile maid, Without whom the world's onward dream would fade, That bodily beauty is the supreme gift Which may from every sin the terror lift. Hell she ignores, and Purgatory defies; And when black Night shall roll before her eyes, She will look straight in Death's grim face forlorn, Without remorse or hate--as one new born. THE ACCURSED. Like pensive herds at rest upon the sands, These to the sea-horizons turn their eyes; Out of their folded feet and clinging hands Bitter sharp tremblings and soft languors rise. Some tread the thicket by the babbling stream, Their hearts with untold secrets ill at ease; Calling the lover of their childhood's dream, They wound the green bark of the shooting trees. Others like sisters wander, grave and slow, Among the rocks haunted by spectres thin, Where Antony saw as larvæ surge and flow The veined bare breasts that tempted him to sin.