Mithraic symbols wreathe the shrine

whereon, like flower-fed bulls, are slain

my years, exhaling in their pain

the lily’s ghost and bleeding wine;

the trumpets of whose throats of gold

cry pæan to the victor steel;

whose souls in airy nimbus rolled

deride the deaths to which they kneel;

and from the sacred flames they feast

in hymns of incense re-aspire

to praise His throne of silver fire,

Who all the leas with lilies fleeced

to feed each great snow-shouldered beast

in whom these squandered days expire.