I am on the upward turn
Of the slow revolving Wheel
With my reign of blood and steel.
O’er my prostrate head ye strode;
On my shoulder bent ye rode.
You the whip-man, I the clown
Till I rose to tread you down.
They will rise to trample me—
For the moment I am free.
Through the ribs the winds may drone
Now the world is all mine own.
Mine to lust, to rage, to dance!
Vive la Freedom! Vive la France!
The Tempter
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Something tapped me on the shoulder
Something whispered, "Come with me,
"Leave the world of men behind you,
"Come where care may never find you
"Come and follow, let me bind you
"Where, in that dark, silent sea,
"Tempest of the world ne'er rages;
"There to dream away the ages,
"Heedless of Time's turning pages,
"Only, come with me."
"Who are you?" I asked the phantom,
"I am rest from Hate and Pride.
"I am friend to king and beggar,
"I am Alpha and Omega,
"I was councilor to Hagar
"But men call me suicide."
I was weary of tide breasting,
Weary of the world's behesting,
And I lusted for the resting
As a lover for his bride.
And my soul tugged at its moorings
And it whispered, "Set me free.
"I am weary of this battle,
"Of this world of human cattle,
"All this dreary noise and prattle.
"This you owe to me."
Long I sat and long I pondered,
On the life that I had squandered,
O'er the paths that I had wandered
Never free.
In the shadow panorama
Passed life's struggles and its fray.
And my soul tugged with new vigor,
Huger grew the phantom's figure,
As I slowly tugged the trigger,
Saw the world fade swift away.
Through the fogs old Time came striding,
Radiant clouds were 'bout me riding,
As my soul went gliding, gliding,
From the shadow into day.
That Women May Sing of Us
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I have felt their eyes upon me,
Searing my soul with their burning,
I have known their hard hands on me
Vibrant with deep locked yearning.
Why did their hands grow cold
As they slid along my thighs?
And the fires so fierce and old
Turn to ashes in their eyes?
Thor
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I stand
Back of the North Wind
My hand
Holds the tide’s reins;
My brand
Flashes amid the stars;
I stand
Back of the North Wind.
Tides
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I am weary of birth and battle,
Seasons and Time and tide,
Of the ocean's empty rattle.
And the woman at my side.
I am weary of pain and revel,
And eyes that glitter or weep;
I will sell my soul to the Devil
For a thousand years of sleep.
Then never a dream shall haunt me,
And never a star shall rise,
Nor a shadow come to daunt me
In the blackness over my eyes.
There shall be no name or number
Of the seasons over me;
I shall know the tides of slumber
As a sunken ship, the sea.
And when I shall wake hereafter,
And the Devil comes for his gain,
I will crush him with crimson laughter
And turn to my sleep again.
To a Roman Woman
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Gleaming ivory, black basalt;
Red lips parted and brooding eyes—
Woman of mystery, whose fault
That a black hand spreads your heavy thighs?
Only the carven marble cats
Frozen along the winding frieze,
Only the silent night-winged bats
Know who has lain between your knees.
What were the heights to which you rose?
What were the deeps to which you sank?
What slaves shuddered beneath your blows?
Deep of your charms what masters drank?
Sated deep of your tribe and blood,
Desire again rose up like a wave,
Coursing your veins in a burning flood
At the smooth round limbs of the great black slave.
One more mystery to attain,
One more sensual depth to explore;
Nights of fierce and exalted pain
Racking the soul to its burning core.
White form lapped by the great black arms,
Pleas that are meant to be in vain,
Fingers ravishing secret charms,
Shrill sharp cries of ecstatic pain.
Silver stars in the blue cobalt.
Aura’d lust of a leering god;
Ivory mingling with black basalt,
White legs spread to a stiff black rod.
To a Woman
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Though fathoms deep you sink me in the mould,
Locked in with thick-lapped lead and bolted wood,
Yet rest not easy in your lover's arms;
Let him beware to stand where I have stood.
I shall not fail to burst my ebon case,
And thrust aside the clods with fingers red:
Your blood shall turn to ice to see my face
Look from the shadows on your midnight bed.
To face the dead, he, too, shall wake in vain,
My fingers at his throat, your scream his knell;
He will not see me tear you from your bed,
And drag you by your golden hair to Hell.
To Certain Cultured Women
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Open the window; the jungle calls;
(Searching winds in the grasses rank)
Your masters sleep in the silent halls.
(Breathe the wind, grown haunting and dank.)
Restless woman with magic eyes,
Jungle love is your heritage;
Deep in your soul it slumbers and lies,
Waking after an ageless age.
Men of your hue have drawn apart,