By George Sterling

Who shall stoop from her javelin thrown, who from her singing dart?
Her sudden shaft is hot in his loins, her steel in his maddened heart.

Deep in the still and altared dusk her lamp glows small and red,
Mirrored clear in the great cuirass, like the rubies of her bed;
Blood of light on his burnished helm, on the belt and the greaves, one saith
Whose spear is laid and his armor hung in the House of Ashtoreth
Tho Gath go up to the threshing-floors, or hosts assemble at Tyre,
Wait no more for your prince's word, who has taken his desire.
Cities and fields and given hearts, honor and life were weighed
The balance shown and the end foreseen and the deep decision made.

Weep for the one so strong in war, whose war is now of the Dark!
Well he harnessed his breast with steel, but her arrours find their mark.
Her hands have loosened the brazen belt and her breath has found his breath
Whose sword is laid and his armor hung in the House of Ashtoreth.

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