ISHTAR
The vanity of Art rebuking Nature,
Such she,
Whose whirlpool eyes, where eddying mysteries seethe and clash,
And false red lips
Make loveliness sublime of human clay.
And men forget the altar and their vows
When they have felt the glamour of her gaze,
Or held her hand, or touched her lips.
Ah! listen to the treacherous music, hear
Her voice,
Awakening slumbering echoes in the soul’s abyss,
Her silver song
As she unclasps her girdle with a smile;
And having reaped the evil, scarcely leaves
Enough of whiteness or of righteousness
To robe a bishop or a pope.
Her laugh has rocked wild cities to their ruin.
The Gods,
When banished from their temples, left this parting bane,
This blue-eyed sin,
This Ishtar—pallid Eponym of lust—
That when we meet her in our squares and streets,
Bartering her beauty, we may yet recall
The graven images of Babylon.