The Funeral Urn

Clark Ashton Smith

(From Christophe des Laurières)

My heart is like some onyx urn
Upon whose cold and carven side
Antique symbolic serpents glide
In scrolls that wander and return;

Where orchid and where columbine
Intort their blooms ambiguously;
Where over some exotic tree
Clambers the grape's familiar vine.

How fair and strange the art thereof!
But - irony supreme - within,
The poisonous black dust of sin
And ashes from dark pyres of love.

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