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.