This poem was included in the original 1915 edition.
I WOULD I had thrust my hands of flesh Into the disk--flowers bee-infested, Into the mirror-like core of fire Of the light of life, the sun of delight. For what are anthers worth or petals Or halo-rays? Mockeries, shadows Of the heart of the flower, the central flame All is yours, young passer-by; Enter the banquet room with the thought; Don't sidle in as if you were doubtful Whether you're welcome--the feast is yours! Nor take but a little, refusing more With a bashful "Thank you", when you're hungry. Is your soul alive? Then let it feed! Leave no balconies where you can climb; Nor milk-white bosoms where you can rest; Nor golden heads with pillows to share; Nor wine cups while the wine is sweet; Nor ecstasies of body or soul, You will die, no doubt, but die while living In depths of azure, rapt and mated, Kissing the queen-bee, Life!
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