Edmund Pollard

I would I had thrust my hands of flesh

Into the disk - flowers bee-infested,

Into the mirror-like core of fire

Of the light of life, the sun of delight.

For what are anthers worth or petals

Or halo-rays? Mockeries, shadows

Of the heart of the flower, the central flame

All is yours, young passer-by;

Enter the banquet room with the thought;

Don't sidle in as if you were doubtful

Whether you're welcome - the feast is yours!

Nor take but a little, refusing more

With 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 living

In depths of azure, rapt and mated,

Kissing the queen-bee, Life!