In “Children of Lilith,” we catch a glimpse of Lilith in the countenance of Eros. Both Lilith and Eve appear in “A Vision of Woman,” but no attempt is made to reconcile the irreconcilable. The Eve-Lilith conflict is the struggle between Helen of Troy and the blonde Marguerite. The desire to achieve a new synthesis of woman, dissolving the Eve-Lilith conflict, lends significance to “Dr. Faust’s Descent from Heaven.” It would be necessary to play with divers combinations and permutations in order to make the grouping psychologically correct. This task is too pedantic for me. I leave it to the psycho-analysts and to the ingenuity of the reader. Perhaps I may change my mind some day when I publish my collected poems or my autobiography. Most of my books of verse are out of print. The two little volumes in the Pocket Series are the only form in which my verse is, at present, accessible. GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECK. New York, June, 1924. SLAVES _No puppet master pulls the strings on high, Portioning our parts, the tinsel and the paint: A twisted nerve, a ganglion gone awry, Predestinates the sinner and the saint._ _Each, held more firmly than by hempen band, Slave of his entrails, struts across the scene: The malnutrition of some obscure gland Makes him a Ripper or the Nazarene._ IRON PASSION Love’s smiling countenance I know, But not the anger of the god, For I have wandered where Boccaccio And Casanova trod. I am aweary of these pleasant things, The gallant dalliance and the well-watched fire: Give me the magic of a thousand springs That shook the blood of young Assyrian kings, That stirs the young monk in his cell, and stings Crimson and hot! Wearing the crown of unassuaged desire, Break me or bless me--only love me not! Come as a wanton red with rouge and wine And I shall weave out of my song for thee A purpler cloak than his Who, hating, loved that Lesbia. Come to me A saint--the halo shall be thine Of Beatrice. There is no joy in tender loves or wise, No sweet in wrong: Come unto me with cruel, loveless eyes, O iron passion of the lords of song! THE THREE SPHINXES Before the image older than the world, Or ill or good, By Titan hand into the desert hurled, In the Egyptian sunset musing stood-- Long having travelled by fantastic roads Where in deep sands the tremulous footstep sinks-- The oldest and the youngest of the gods, Saying: “Upon my life has fallen thy shadow, O Sphinx!” Replied the Sphinx: “O son of Aphrodite, Shall wisdom teach thee how the soul is won, Or the hot sands be balsam on thy lids? Behold approach from Thebes and Babylon, Huge birds grotesque against the falling gloom, My far-come younger sisters.” And a mighty Thunder of pinions shook the pyramids, And made the mummies mumble in their tomb.