Drunk as the glamor of disgrace A torpid shadow scars her face; Golgotha seems her star-veiled skull; Her eyes glow dull and pitiful. As like the ghoul of God she picks From tumid fields bouquets of sticks, And mourns that such blooms leaped from seeds Too rich for these trite paeans of weeds. Alas, that Lust had crucified New Gods in every man who died, And made the cross the signpost of The street to Hate, not the road to Love. ... Sad Mother of immortal sons, No wonder your quaint weeping runs Like laughter of infernal nuns In convents of oblivions. No wonder Hell delights to hear Opposing prayers for vengeance rear Their hydra heads in pious guise To the sad Monarch of the skies. There is more pleasure stirred in Hell For each fair youth the Christians fell Than for a million men who sin Against a moral discipline. It is not strange, it is not queer That Hell is quenched with Heaven's tear; It is not strange, it is not odd That Satan's laughs are the groans of God. It is to mourn, it is to weep That God gives his beloved sleep; It is to smile, it is to laugh; Hell's joke is Heaven's epitaph. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest... |