I saw One clad in opalescent grey, Who held a crystal cup within her hands
In which a sun was deathless. Mighty wands
Shook as the spears of starlight in each ray, And where they smote the darkness was as day,
And where they smote not, night was on the lands.
Below her feet dead stars were strewn like sands, And in her wings the constellations lay.
“Of this have all men drunken deep,” she said.
“Drink this or perish. There is naught beside. This is the draught that fashions men from swine, And though thy heart deny me in its pride, Yet of my cup of dreams its blood is red
And thy lips red with my creative wine!”