Nero

This Rome, that was the toil of many men,         The consummation of laborious years -         Fulfilment's crown to visions of the dead,         And image of the wide desire of kings -         Is made my darkling dream's effulgency,         Fuel of vision, brief embodiment         Of wandering will, and wastage of the strong         Fierce ecstacy of one tremendous hour,         When ages piled on ages were a flame         To all the years behind, and years to be.         Yet any sunset were as much as this,         Save for the music forced by hands of fire         From out the hard strait silences which bind         Dull Matter's tongueless mouth - a music pierced         With the tense voice of Life, more quick to cry         Its agony - and save that I believed         The radiance redder for the blood of men.         Destruction hastens and intensifies         The process that is Beauty, manifests         Ranges of form unknown before, and gives         Motion and voice and hue where otherwise         Bleak inexpressiveness had leveled all.         If one create, there is the lengthy toil;         The laboured years and days league tow'rd an end         Less than the measure of desire, mayhap,         After the sure consuming of all strength,         And strain of faculties that otherwhere         Were loosed upon enjoyment; and at last         Remains to one capacity nor power         For pleasure in the thing that he hath made.         But on destruction hangs but little use         Of time or faculty, but all is turned         To the one purpose, unobstructed, pure,         Of sensuous rapture and observant joy;         And from the intensities of death and ruin,         One draws a heightened and completer life,         And both extends and vindicates himself.         I would I were a god, with all the scope         Of attributes that are the essential core         Of godhead, and its visibility.         I am but emperor, and hold awhile         The power to hasten Death upon his way,         And cry a halt to worn and lagging Life         For others, but for mine own self may not         Delay the one, nor bid the other speed.         There have been many kings, and they are dead,         And have no power in death save what the wind         Confers upon their blown and brainless dust         To vex the eyeballs of posterity.         But were I god, I would be overlord         Of many kings, and were as breath to guide         Their dust of destiny. And were I god,         Exempt from this mortality which clogs         Perception, and clear exercise of will,         What rapture it would be, if but to watch         Destruction crouching at the back of Time,         The tongueless dooms which dog the travelling suns;         The vampire Silence at the breast of worlds,         Fire without light that gnaws the base of things,         And Lethe's mounting tide, that rots the stone         Of fundamental spheres. This were enough         Till such time as the dazzled wings of will         Came up with power's accession, scarcely felt         For very suddenness. Then would I urge         The strong contention and conflicting might         Of chaos and creation, matching them,         Those immemorial powers inimical,         And all their stars and gulfs subservient -         Dynasts of Time, and anarchs of the dark -         In closer war reverseless; and would set         New discord at the universal core,         A Samson-principle to bring it down         In one magnificence of ruin. Yea,         The monster Chaos were mine unleashed hound,         And all my power Destruction's own right arm!         I would exult to mark the smouldering stars         Renew beneath my breath their elder fire,         And feed upon themselves to nothingness.         The might of suns, slow-paced with swinging weight         Of myriad worlds, were made at my desire         One long rapidity of roaring light,         Through which the voice of Life were audible,         And singing of the immemorial dead         Whose dust is loosened into vaporous wings         With soaring wrack of systems ruinous.         And were I weary of the glare of these,         I would tear out the eyes of light, and stand         Above a chaos of extinguished suns,         That crowd, and grind, and shiver thunderously,         Lending vast voice and motion, but no ray         To the stretched silence of the blinded gulfs.         Thus would I give my godhead space and speech         For its assertion, and thus pleasure it,         Hastening the feet of Time with casts of worlds         Like careless pebbles, or with shattered suns         Brightening the aspect of Eternity.