Of all God’s deeds the foulest deed is this: Though my heart aches, though all my manhood squirms, When I am dead, your touch, your mouth, your kiss Dear Love, will seem no sweeter than the worm’s. For hearts and worms and lovers’ ecstasy To life’s Mad Master, on invention bent, Are but the ashes of his alchemy That he discards in his experiment. There is no lodestar in this lonely sea, No ghost of any harbor for my quest, Save Love’s eyes shining tenderly, Save for the respite of your breast, And--maybe--rest. DR. FAUST’S DESCENT FROM HEAVEN I Though your womb be the mother of bliss, O Earth, and the mother of woes, Though your large hands be full of the strange gifts of life, the kiss, and the worm, and the rose, The thunders that break from the sky of fate, and the flash in the pan, To me they are empty, for I know all things encompassed of man. The devious desires that crouch through the brain like monsters that nest in the sea, Pass--pageants of ghosts--through the luminous eyes of one who is dear to me. The other--all pangs and delights of the visible world and its quests, Are engraved in the exquisite curve of her throat and the hieroglyphs of her breasts. One rides on the wingèd chimaera of dreams through aeons purple and red, The other--like new-mown grass is the scent of her flesh in my bed. What can you give me of joy, Earth, what of bitter and sweet? _I have loved Helen of Troy and the blonde Marguerite._ II Straightforth with the Magical Seal I knocked at the musical gates Of Heaven. The angels grew pale, or swooned in the arms of their mates. “I have sounded all chords in the harp of man’s life,” I said, “It is I, Doctor Faust. Now give me your manna for bread.” And they gave me their manna to eat, and drink, and I drank thereof, But they tasted as ashes and stale in my mouth after the kisses of love. So I spake up to God: “In your realm, O Lord, there is nothing to do For a man such as I. Let me pass. T’were different if I could be you! To play with omnipotence, curb lightnings, and summon new worlds at my will-- Yet I stretch out no impious hand for your kingdom. I, too, have my fill. Though the suns be your toy, of Love’s breasts have I joy, though the prayer of the saints be your meat, _Have you loved Helen of Troy and the blonde Marguerite?_” III