O! the words of greater men
Are weaker, yes, by far
Than charmers—mystics wild-eyed,
If in the desert they espied
A burning bush or star.
Muhammad, in his wisdom great
For business may have been.
But if in deserts one has heard
An angel’s voice with verse immured—
Can he then judge my sin?
A wandering, drooling madman then
Is such a prophet, he—
Who would partake in blank delight
The whimsy of an insane night
And then prescribe it me?
No farther in the dredge of time
Should we sojourn for truth.
Behind this merchant: bloody psalms
With screams and nail-impaléd palms
And men condemned in youth.
We are such things as dreams are made,
Though life in dreams is nice—
When roused in mornings with a smile
The sun still rises all the while
Without a sacrifice.
So, foolish men who came before
With heads stuck in the sky:
Your heaven blurred your view of stars,
But I shall see despite your scars—
No Son for me did die.
And should such thoughts condemn me now,
I shall with patience go—
No frothy-mouthed advice most queer
Will fill my heart with empty fear
Or curse me with your woe.
I’ll have a lived the life of love
You swore I could not know.