Salome

Proud panoply of fans and frankincense, Gold blare of trumpets, flowered robes of state, Unnumbered symbols of magnificence, To lead Salome through the palace gate, Where loud the prophet of the Lord blasphemes The red abominations of her race And chides her for her flesh-entangled dreams and turns his back upon her painted face. Thus do we turn from some red-shadowed lust That through the broken forests of the brain Weaves silently with tentacles out-thrust, Groping in darkness, but for one in vain, For like a sliding sun the soul has fled Leaving a princess and a vultured head.