Babylon the Great

Foul is she and ill-favoured, set askew: Gaze not upon her till thou dream her fair, Lest she should mesh thee in her wanton hair, Adept in arts grown old yet ever new. Her heart lusts not for love, but thro and thro’ For blood, as spotted panther lusts in lair; No wine is in her cup, but filth is there Unutterable, with plagues hid out of view. Gaze not upon her, for her dancing whirl Turns giddy the fixed gazer presently: Gaze not upon her, lest thou be as she When, at the far end of her long desire, Her scarlet vest and gold and gem and pearl And she amid her pomp are set on fire.

“Standing afar off for the fear of her torment.”

Is this the end? is there no end but this? Yea, none beside: No other end for pride And foulness and besottedness.

Hath she no friend? hath she no clinging friend? Nay, none at all; Who stare upon her fall Quake for themselves with hair on end.

Will she be done away? vanish away? Yea, like a dream; Yea, like the shades that seem Somewhat, and lo! are nought by day.

Alas for her amid man’s helpless moan, Alas for her! She hath no comforter: In solitude of fire she sits alone.