Faustine

Ave Faustina Imperatrix, morituri te salutant.     Lean back, and get some minutes peace;     Let your head lean     Back to the shoulder with its fleece     Of locks, Faustine.     The shapely silver shoulder stoops,     Weighed over clean     With state of splendid hair that droops     Each side, Faustine.     Let me go over your good gifts     That crown you queen;     A queen whose kingdom ebbs and shifts     Each week, Faustine.     Bright heavy brows well gathered up:     White gloss and sheen;     Carved lips that make my lips a cup     To drink, Faustine,     Wine and rank poison, milk and blood,     Being mixed therein     Since first the devil threw dice with God     For you, Faustine.     Your naked new-born soul, their stake,     Stood blind between;     God said let him that wins her take     And keep Faustine.     But this time Satan throve, no doubt:     Long since, I ween,     Gods part in you was battered out;     Long since, Faustine.     The die rang sideways as it fell,     Rang cracked and thin,     Like a mans laughter heard in hell     Far down, Faustine,     A shadow of laughter like a sigh,     Dead sorrows kin;     So rang, thrown down, the devils die     That won Faustine.     A suckling of his breed you were,     One hard to wean;     But God, who lost you, left you fair,     We see, Faustine.     You have the face that suits a woman     For her souls screen     The sort of beauty thats called human     In hell, Faustine.     You could do all things but be good     Or chaste of mien;     And that you would not if you could,     We know, Faustine.     Even he who cast seven devils out     Of Magdalene     Could hardly do as much, I doubt,     For you, Faustine.     Did Satan make you to spite God?     Or did God mean     To scourge with scorpions for a rod     Our sins, Faustine?     I know what queen at first you were,     As though I had seen     Red gold and black imperious hair     Twice crown Faustine.     As if your fed sarcophagus     Spared flesh and skin,     You come back face to face with us,     The same Faustine.     She loved the games men played with death,     Where death must win;     As though the slain mans blood and breath     Revived Faustine.     Nets caught the pike, pikes tore the net;     Lithe limbs and lean     From drained-out pores dripped thick red sweat     To soothe Faustine.     She drank the steaming drift and dust     Blown off the scene;     Blood could not ease the bitter lust     That galled Faustine.     All round the foul fat furrows reeked,     Where blood sank in;     The circus splashed and seethed and shrieked     All round Faustine.     But these are gone now: years entomb     The dust and din;     Yea, even the baths fierce reek and fume     That slew Faustine.     Was life worth living then? and now     Is life worth sin?     Where are the imperial years? and how     Are you Faustine?     Your soul forgot her joys, forgot     Her times of teen;     Yea, this life likewise will you not     Forget, Faustine?     For in the time we know not of     Did fate begin     Weaving the web of days that wove     Your doom, Faustine.     The threads were wet with wine, and all     Were smooth to spin;     They wove you like a Bacchanal,     The first Faustine.     And Bacchus cast your mates and you     Wild grapes to glean;     Your flower-like lips were dashed with dew     From his, Faustine.     Your drenched loose hands were stretched to hold     The vines wet green,     Long ere they coined in Roman gold     Your face, Faustine.     Then after change of soaring feather     And winnowing fin,     You woke in weeks of feverish weather,     A new Faustine.     A star upon your birthday burned,     Whose fierce serene     Red pulseless planet never yearned     In heaven, Faustine.     Stray breaths of Sapphic song that blew     Through Mitylene     Shook the fierce quivering blood in you     By night, Faustine.     The shameless nameless love that makes     Hells iron gin     Shut on you like a trap that breaks     The soul, Faustine.     And when your veins were void and dead,     What ghosts unclean     Swarmed round the straitened barren bed     That hid Faustine?     What sterile growths of sexless root     Or epicene?     What flower of kisses without fruit     Of love, Faustine?     What adders came to shed their coats?     What coiled obscene     Small serpents with soft stretching throats     Caressed Faustine?     But the time came of famished hours,     Maimed loves and mean,     This ghastly thin-faced time of ours,     To spoil Faustine.     You seem a thing that hinges hold,     A love-machine     With clockwork joints of supple gold     No more, Faustine.     Not godless, for you serve one God,     The Lampsacene,     Who metes the gardens with his rod;     Your lord, Faustine.     If one should love you with real love     (Such things have been,     Things your fair face knows nothing of,     It seems, Faustine);     That clear hair heavily bound back,     The lights wherein     Shift from dead blue to burnt-up black;     Your throat, Faustine,     Strong, heavy, throwing out the face     And hard bright chin     And shameful scornful lips that grace     Their shame, Faustine,     Curled lips, long since half kissed away,     Still sweet and keen;     Youd give him poison shall we say?     Or what, Faustine?