“Dost thou think empty prayers shall glad thy lips
Kept red and living with perpetual sips
Of Love’s rich cup of wine?
That thy fair body shall not fall away,
And waste among the worms that bitter day
Thou hast no lover round thy neck to twine
Fond arms like these of mine?
“I say they are no prophets,—very deaths,
And plagues, and rottenness, do use their breaths
Who speak against delight;
Pale distant slayers of humanity
Have tainted them, and sent them forth to try
Weak lures to make man give up joyous right
Of days for empty night.
“I tell thee, in their wilderness shall be
No herbs enough for food for them and thee,
No rock to give thee drink;
I tell thee, all their heavens are a cheat,
Or but a mirage to betray thy feet,
And draw thee quicker to some grave’s dread brink
Where thou shalt fall and sink.
“Turn rather unto me, and hear my voice
Against these desert howlings, and rejoice:
Now surely do I crave
To treble this my beauty, and embalm
My words with deathless thrill, singing the psalm
Of pleasure to thee, King,—so I may save
Thy fair days from this grave.
“Yea, now of all my beauty will I strive
With these mad prophesiers till I drive
Their ravings from thine ear:
Against their rudeness I will set my grace,
My softness, and the magic of my face;
And spite of all their curses thou shalt hear
And let my voice draw near:
“Against their loud revilings I will try
The long low-speaking pleadings of my sigh,
All my heart’s tender way;
Against their deserts—here, before thine eyes
My love shall open thee a paradise,
Where, if thou comest, thou shalt surely stay
And seek no better way:
“And rather than these haters of thy joy
Should anyhow allure thee to destroy
Thy heart’s prosperity,—
O, I will throw my woman’s arms entwined
About thy body; ere thy lips can find
One word of yielding, I will kiss them dry:
—And failing, let me die!
“But look on me, for it is in my soul
To make the measure of thy glory whole—
With many goodly things
To crown thee, yea, with pleasure and with love,
Till there shall scarcely be a name above
King Herod’s, in the mouth of one who sings
The fame of mighty kings:
“For see how great and fair a realm is this—
My untried love—the never conquered bliss
All hoarded in my breast;
My beauty and my love were jewels meet
To make the glory of a king complete,
And I,—O thou of kingship half-possest—
Can crown thee with the rest!
“I stand before thee—on my head the crown
Of all thou lackest yet in thy renown—
Ah, King, take this of me!
And in my hand I bear a brimming cup
That sparkles; to thine eyes I hold it up:
A royal draught of life-long pleasure—see,
The wine is fit for thee!