POEM No. 8

O jaded soul,
So sated with Satanic myth,
Sophistic lore,
And vapid store;
So deadly cloy’d
With truth alloy’d;
So spent, in sooth,
For drossless truth–
Behold: the Bowl
Of golden Oil
(The Spirit’s toil),
And Stick, and Tree,
or beacon Three–
Affinity
Of trinity,
Divinity,
Eternity!
O Soul! Awake! Swing wide thy gate!–
The King! He brings, in “No. 8,”
More butter from His kine and sheep;
Yea, honey too! O soul, why sleep!
Arouse thee from thy deathly swoon,
And of the Holy Spirit’s boon–
The rare, the fine, the large, the stern delight
Let feast thy sicklied appetite!–
Behold: The “Hands”, the “Sticks”, the “Scroll”,
The “Stars,” the “Lion,” “Hour,” and “Rod”–
The mystic “Seven” that unroll
The crowning work on earth of God!
Digest thou not this symbol’ code?
Make Present Truth thy lone abode,
And gather up the victuals past,
Then make ne’er more such light repast!–
Behold the woman starry crown’d;
Herself in light resplendent gown’d
Be thou one of this woman’s seed,
Thou must be true in word and deed.
Behold, the locust come to see
If victory’s seal doth rest on thee,
Lest soon the sting of scorpions tail
Convulse thy soul and make thee quail
With racking, lancinating pain
To torment mad thy throbbing brain,
Then heaven’s horsemen tread thee down,
Bereft of life’s eternal crown!
And under dank eroded sod,
A thousand years thou lie a clod.
Then up from hell’s grim charnal store,
In foul habiliment of yore,
Thou rise to slave yet five score “Day”
To Gog and Magog, for the fray
When fools rush forth with mad intent
Upon a fool’s endeavor bent–
But, lo, instead of the Peerless Groom
In dreadful wrath call down thy doom;
And quenchless fire thy knell doth toll,
And up in choking smoke, oh soul,
Up, up, and up, and ever so,
Thou go, O soul, thou go, thou go!
Quick then, repent! Board “No. 8,”
The Blessed-Hope Line’s home-bound freight!

View PDF: Poem No. 8