Enough of the virgins¹ and lilies, of passionate²,

        suffocating³ perfume of corruption⁴,

     no more narcissus perfume, lily harlots, the blades

        of sensation

     piercing the flesh to blossom of death.

     Have done, have done with this shuddering⁵,

        delicious business

     of thrilling ruin in the flesh, of pungent⁶ passion,

        of rare, death-edged ecstasy⁷.

     Give us our turn, give us a chance, let our hour

        strike,

     O soon, soon!

 

     Let the darkness turn violet with rich dawn.

     Let the darkness be warmed, warmed through to a

        ruddy violet,

     incipient purpling towards summer in the world

        of the heart of man.

 

     Are the violets already here!

     Show me! I tremble so much to hear it, that even

        now

     on the threshold of spring, I fear I shall die.

     Show me the violets that are out.

 

     Oh, if it be true, and the living darkness of the

        blood of man is purpling with violets,

     if the violets are coming out from under the rack

        of men, winter-rotten and fallen

     we shall have spring.

     Pray not to die on this Pisgah blossoming with

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