Edmund PollardI would I had thrust my hands of fleshInto the disk-flowers bee-infested,Into the mirror-like core of fireOf the light of life, the sun of delight.For what are anthers worth or petalsOr halo-rays? Mockeries, shadowsOf the heart of the flower, the central flameAll is yours, young passer-by;Enter the banquet room with the thought;Don’t sidle in as if you were doubtfulWhether you’re welcome—the feast is yours!Nor take but a little, refusing moreWith a bashful “Thank you”, when you’re hungry.Is your soul alive? Then let it feed!Leave no balconies where you can climb;Nor milk-white bosoms where you can rest;Nor golden heads with pillows to share;Nor wine cups while the wine is sweet;Nor ecstasies of body or soul,You will die, no doubt, but die while livingIn depths of azure, rapt and mated,Kissing the queen-bee, Life!
I would I had thrust my hands of fleshInto the disk-flowers bee-infested,Into the mirror-like core of fireOf the light of life, the sun of delight.For what are anthers worth or petalsOr halo-rays? Mockeries, shadowsOf the heart of the flower, the central flameAll is yours, young passer-by;Enter the banquet room with the thought;Don’t sidle in as if you were doubtfulWhether you’re welcome—the feast is yours!Nor take but a little, refusing moreWith a bashful “Thank you”, when you’re hungry.Is your soul alive? Then let it feed!Leave no balconies where you can climb;Nor milk-white bosoms where you can rest;Nor golden heads with pillows to share;Nor wine cups while the wine is sweet;Nor ecstasies of body or soul,You will die, no doubt, but die while livingIn depths of azure, rapt and mated,Kissing the queen-bee, Life!