THE WIND, WHENCE BLOWING
From what land where the winds meet
Art thou come, O Wind, O ruthless feet,
O cloak of the most High of Lords,
O shattering thrust of untamed swords?
From what land where the winds tell
Of ancient Powers sin-swept to Hell,
Of meagre men by Christ's craft
Borne to the Throne where Satan laughed?
From what land where a Hill stands,
The stars uplift upon his hands;
A Hill stands, and round his knees
There is concourse of all seas?
"I from the sheer crags of the skies,
To thy hair and hollow eyes!"
LADY OF BABYLON
Pink face of deftly prepared flesh,
Soft limbs whose language you employ
In scheduled hours of bartered joy
Against the limbs of a pale boy
Who flounders in your mesh.
What ashes hide beyond your eye,
What dry winds fanged with thin disdain
Below the convex of your brain
Howl through the bleached bones in the plain
Where your sucked lovers lie?
God save you, exquisite-obscene,
For her poor sake who one time bore
Your sword-edged baby limbs that tore
Red lumps of flesh from her heart's core,
Christ save you, Magdalene!