Once while I dreamt, time rolled up like a shade,
I saw the priests of Cybele burst out
Dancing from caves, and hurling in a rout
On the mountain Corybantes, and I stayed
To dance while the bent flute trilled. This hand betrayed
New rumor in the drums, mine was the bruit
Of praise as the priests’ knives gleamed, and every gout
Bled at the castrate thighs was my sex spayed.
By day I can remember lights and song
Lifted before the figure worn in stone,
The sweet accord, all of us made clean
Again in love, the branches smelling strong
Of childhood. Mother, let us not alone
Under thy hill to die. Let us belong.
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