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!
Lecher and lepers!— all as 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.