Classic Poem

With pale green hopes and the gay colors flying
Of the rich shores that girded their dark land,
They burst into the temple where lay dying
An unknown virgin gutted by her own hand.

The shout went up like a half-strangled song,
Cutting the noonday languor into shreds;
The mob rushed out again and smote the gong,
Bearing the phallus over their febrile heads.

Still, at her feet, the thin-lipped lover prayed,
Beating his anguish on a tympanum,
As in and out among the few that stayed
Wandered the priest's voice from the adytum:

" Lay now the grape and the bright leaves of sorrow
Upon the altar beside her bloody hair;
Wash clean your hands and hearts, that no tomorrow
May find her unforgiven or unfair;

" The god has not yet answered to our pity
For the black vision and tangle in her brains,
Nor is there knowing soever in the city
Of the red histories that throbbed in her blue veins. "

Then, as the twilight clutched a single star,
Cold wonder drove the mourners on their way:
All, for the riddle, swore to roam afar
Scourging the night and gathering the day.