Monday, 20 August 2012

Bacchanale
(To H. P. Lovecraft)

by Samuel Loveman

A flagon is filled for the vintage guest,
The grapes are crushed at the brim;

The young lord loosens his loric vest,
Violets bound on his brow and breast—
And the revel is all for him,
The revel is all for him.

There, where the orchards fire and smoulder,
Agavè dances around;
Arm to white arm and shoulder to shoulder,
Naked Pentheus leaps to enfold her—
But the Mænads make no sound,
The Mænads make no sound.

In Mysia, a low wind shakes and sighs,
An oarsman calls to his crew;
There is a cry the dead man cries,
Once, ere the darkness fills his eyes—
With a knife that his mother drew,
A knife that his mother drew.

(1936)

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