The Temptation in the Wilderness

Monotonously grey the skies
Westward with hues of rose are barred:
Beneath, the desert landscape lies
Embrowned with crusted scurf and shard
Of salt-flakes, flinty like the hard
Heart of a man long dead to good,
Who festers in his solitude.

No life, where life hath been; for foul
And ragged on the roof the thatch
Still hangs in tatters, like the cowl
That hoods a skull; the rusty latch
Creaks on the door; and many a patch,
Leprous upon the walls within.
Perpetuates the slime of sin.

But who are these? No lords, I ween,
Of this loathed place. How like a god.
With kingly eyes and brows serene.
Is He, whose bleeding feet unshod
The ghastly wilderness have trod:
How tranquilly upon the stone
That squares the porch, he makes his throne.

Before Him kneels a suppliant, lifts
Strong arms — yet not with hands that pray,
Or adoration, or with gifts:
Woman or Man? Who knows? The grey
Serge from the navel falls away.
Leaving all bare — breast, throat, and arms
Snowy with snake-enwoven charms.

The forehead pleads not, but commands:
The Bacchic bosom heaves with pride:
Above the elbows, bright as brands,
Armlets, embossed, on either side.
Enhance the lustre that they hide —
The dazzling skin, the flesh that burns
Like fire in alabaster urns.

Upraised in those broad palms are stones.
Torn from the pavement, cold and dead,
Thrust forth in scorn to match the tones
From lips voluptuously red
Hissing: " O God! make these stones bread! ''
He answers from his barren throne:
" Man shall not live by bread alone."