Believe green buds awaken in the spring, That autumn paints the leaves with somber fire; Believe I held my heart inviolate To lavish on one man my hot desire. In that dead citadel of crumbling stone. Her eyes were snared by that unholy sheen, And curious madness took me by the throat, As of a rival lover thrust between Was it a dream the nighted lotus brought? Then curst the dream that bought my sluggish life; And curst each laggard hour that does not see Hot blood drip blackly from the crimsoned knife. The shadows were black around him, The dripping jaws gaped wide, Thicker than rain the red drops fell; But my love was fiercer than Deaths black spell, Nor all the iron walls of hell Could keep me from his side. Now we are done with roaming, evermore; No more the oars, the windy harps refrain; Nor crimson pennon frights the dusky shore; Blue girdle of the world, receive again Her whom thou gavest me. —The Song of Belit, Robert E. Howard
Posted on: Wed, 14 May 2014 16:23:51 +0000