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Poem	[Dedicated to G. M. Marston] Pale as the night that pales In the dawn's pearl-pure pavillion, I wait for thee, with my dove's breast Shuddering, a god its bitter guest- Have I not gilded my nails And painted my lips with vermillion ? Am I not wholly stript Of the deeds and thoughts that obscure thee? I wait for thee, my soul distraught With aching for some nameless naught In its most arcane crypt- Am I not fit to endure thee? Girded about the paps With a golden girdle of glory, Dost thou wait me, thy slave who am, As a wolf lurks for a strayed white lamb? The chain of the stars snaps, And the deep of night is hoary! Thou whose mouth is a flame With its seven-edged sword proceeding, Come ! I am writhing with despair Like a snake taken in a snare, Moaning thy mystical name Till my tongue is torn and bleeding! Have I not gilded my nails And painted my lips with vermillion? Yea ! thou art I; the deed awakes, Thy lightening strikes; thy thunder breaks Wild as the bride that wails In the bridegroom's plumed pavillion!
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