Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/43

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So I scatter, so imploreGods of Crete, summoned beforewith slighter craft;Ah, hear my prayer:Grant to my soulthe body that it wore,trained to your thought,that kept and held your power,as the petal of black powerthe opiate of the flower.
For art undreamt in Crete,strange art and dire,in counter-charm prevents my charm,limits my power:pine-cones I heapGrant answer to my prayer.
No more, my soul—as the black cup, sullen and dark with fire,burns still beside it, noon's bright heatis withered, filled with dust;and into that noon-heatgrown drab and stale,is sudden sound of thunder and swift rain,till the scarlet flower is wreckedin the slash of the white hail.
The poppy that my soul was,formed to bind all mortals,made to strike and gather heartslike flame upon an altar,fades and shrinks, a red leaf—waste and drift of the cold rain.
The DialH. D.

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