To be possessed, to be not holy.
The gorgeous ballets of the lovers' eyes
Furnish their feminine cover for the meadows,
Seeing in halfworld's light the proper
Show, for which no ticket's sold.
The evil lever of the lover's hand
Affords no unpricked surface; and the rose,
Eccentric naturalizer of the brood, is blood -
Director of the horizon; lyers-in, the graceful
Prostituters at ease in their familiar ruse.
The silly world that thinks does not really know
The singular pantomimes of the unloved,
Who wound their torsoed fingers on the rose;
Knowing the area in their winter work;
They are the fondlers of the obscene ground.
Go, rose, forget; seeing in them
The english monk, the bolshevik dancer,
The daily crasher of the gate, the american beauty
Farming the chateau's shell with her foreign husband,
The poet thinking of his natural processes.
The anthology of this fluid century
Has its unimpeachable meaning; the unloved, the lover,
Have each their congruent poses. Forget
The intellectual hymn to put things by,
And be possessed, love, be not holy.