Quean of the
Quality being the
Quatorzains of a
King of myself, I labour to espouse
An equal soul. Alas! how frail I find
The golden light within the gilded house.
Helpless and passionate, and weak of mind!
Lechers and lepers!—as all ivy cling,
Emasculate the healthy bole they haunt.
Eternity is pregnant; I shall sing
Now—by my power—a spirit grave and gaunt
Brilliant and selfish, hard and hot, to flaunt
Reared like a flame across the lampless west,
Until by love or laughter we enchaunt,
Compel ye to Kithairon’s thorny crest—
Evoe! Iacche! consummatum est.