A Vision of Zimiamvia

by Eric Rücker Eddison

I will have gold and silver for my delight:
Hangings of red silk, purfled and work’d in gold
With mantichores and what worse shapes of fright
Terror Antiquus spawn’d in the days of old.
I will have columns of Parian vein’d with gems,
Their capitals by Pheidias’ self design’d,
By his hand carv’d, for flowers with strong smooth stems,
Nepenthe, Elysian Amaranth, and their kind.

I will have night: and the taste of a field well fought,
And a golden bed made wide for luxury;
And there,– since else were all things else prov’d naught,–
Bestower and hallower of all things: I will have Thee.

–Thee, and hawthorn time. For in that new birth though all
Change, you I will have unchang’d: even that dress,
So fall’n to your hips as lapping waves should fall:
You, cloth’d upon with your beauty’s nakedness.

The line of your flank: so lily-pure and warm:
The globéd wonder of splendid breasts laid bare:
The gleam, like cymbals a-clash, when you lift your arm;
And the faun leaps out with the sweetness of red-gold hair.

My dear,– my tongue is broken: I cannot see:
A sudden subtle fire beneath my skin
Runs, and an inward thunder deafens me,
Drowning mine ears: I tremble. – O unpin

Those pins of anachite diamond, and unbraid
Those strings of margery-pearls, and so let fall
Your python tresses in their deep cascade
To be your misty robe imperial. –

The beating of wings, the gallop, the wild spate,
Die down. A hush resumes all Being, which you
Do with your starry presence consecrate,
And peace of moon-trod gardens and falling dew.

Two are our bodies: two are our minds, but wed.
On your dear shoulder, like a child asleep,
I let my shut lids press, while round my head
Your gracious hands their benediction keep.

Mistress of my delights; and Mistress of Peace:
O ever changing, never changing, You:
Dear pledge of our true love’s unending lease,
Since true to you means to mine own self true.–

I will have gold and jewels for my delight:
Hyacinth, ruby, and smaragd, and curtains work’d in gold
With mantichores and what worse shapes of fright
Terror Antiquus spawn’d in the days of old.

Earth I will have, and the deep sky’s ornament:
Lordship, and hardship, and peril by land and sea.–
And still, about cock-shut time, to pay for my banishment,
Safe in the lowe of the firelight I will have Thee.