|
It
is sunset, and the rose rays fall aslant the woodland; they
trace patterns of wondrous witchery on the velvet of the
glade. A ruddy glow lightens the marble leer of the
all-glorious one, the child of Arcady, the ineffable Pan --
Pan! Pan! Io Pan! -- before whom I lie prostrate with my
robes careless and freeflung, so that the red warmth of
Apollon burns on my live quivering flesh, as I lie and yearn
in utter worship towards the all glorious one, not daring to
raise my eyes to yonder rosy shaft of Parian stone. The love
in my heart melts all the winter of my body, and the warm
salt springs gush from my eyes upon the ground -- surely the
latter spring shall see green violets grow thereon!'
Then, in the hush of the sunset, come noiseless hoofs
treading the enammelled turf; and ere I know it a fierce
lithe hairy body had gripped mine, and the dread wand of
magic shudders its live way into my being, so that the
foundations of the soul are shaken. The heavy breath and the
rank kisses of a faun are on my neck, and his teeth fasten
in my flesh -- a terrible heave flings our bodies into mid
air with the athletic passion that unites us with the utmost
God "hid i' th' middle o' matter" -- and the life of my
strange lover boils within my bowels -- there is a
ronronnement as of myriad nymphs and fauns, satyrs and
dryads, -- a stirring of the waters of life -- we fall back
in an ecstacy -- somewhat like death -- with the gasping
murmur Pan! Pan! Io Pan! while the marmorean
splendour before us turns with the last ray of sunlight his
goodly smile upon still and stricken bodies -- the heap of
the slain of Priapus -- perinde ac cadaver -- ah! it is
night, it is death.
--
The Scented Garden of Abdullah
the Satirist of Shiraz," by Ordo Templi Orientis |