We carry spices to the gods.
For this are we wrought curiously,
All vain-desire and reverie,
To carry spices to the gods.
We carry spices to the gods.
Sacred and soft as lotos-flowers
Are those long languorous hands of ours
That carry spices to the gods.
We know their roses and their rods,
Having in pale spring-orchards seen
Their cruel eyes, and in the green
Strange twilights having met the gods.
Sometimes we tire. Upon the sods
We set the great enamels by,
Wherein the occult odours lie,
And play with children on the sods.
Yet soon we take, O jealous gods,
Those gracious caskets once again,
Storied with oracles of pain,
That keep the spices for the gods.
We carry spices to the gods.
Like sumptuous cold chalcedony
Our weary breasts and hands must be
To carry spices to the gods.