I am old Anteros; a young, old god;
A sage who smiles and limps upon a crutch.
But I can turn my crutch into a rod,
And change my rod into a crown of wood.
Yea, I am he who conquers with a touch,
And plays with poisons till he makes them good.
IV.
The sun, uprising with his golden hair,
Is mine apostle; and he serves me well.
Thoughts and desires of mine, beyond compare,