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!