“Above the figure of the Queen is the Mother-Vulture; at once the avenging, protective, and intuitive emissary of MAUT the Mother of all things; holding the Seal composed of a ring and a plate engraved with the symbols of the birth-presiding forces which gave a name of power to the Queen.” [via]
“In the first Egyptian Room at the British Museum a painting, said to be of Queen Hatshepset, who lived about B.C. 1600, is hung on the walls (the Queen’s name has been painted out and that of Thothmes III. substituted), she is making perfume offerings; this picture is reproduced from an obelisk now fallen, which was set up by this Queen at Karnak. A print of this painting is reproduced in the English translation of Wiedemann’s Immortality of the Soul.” [via]
Hatshepsu making perfume offerings [via]
“I, the mere rhymer, she, the queen of rhyme,
As sweeps her sickle in the falling wheat,
Her body’s sleek intoxicating time,
The music of the motion of her feet!” [via]
“I watched, a leopard, stealthy in the corn,
As if a tigress held herself above;
My body quivered, eager to be torn,
Stung by the snake of some convulsive love!
The leopard changed his spots; for in me leapt
The mate, the tiger. Murderous I sprang
Across the mellow earth: my senses swept,
One torrent flame, one soul-dissolving pang.
How queenly bent her body to the grip!
How lithe it slips, her bosom to my own!
The throat leans back, to tantalise the lip:—
The sudden shame of her is overthrown!” [via]
“IN middle music of Apollo’s corn
She stood, the reaper, challenging a kiss;
The lips of her were fresher than the morn,
The perfume of her skin was ambergris;
The sun had kissed her body into brown;
Ripe breasts thrown forward to the summer breeze;
Warm tints of red lead fancy to the crown,
Her coils of chestnut, in abundant ease,
That bound the stately head. What joy of youth
Lifted her nostril to respire the wind?
What pride of being? What triumphal truth
Acclaimed her queen to her imperial mind?” [via]
“‘King, you are touched!’ ‘Fight on, Earl Lecherer!’
I cursed him to his face—the added spur
Sticks venom in my lunge—a sudden thrust!
No cry, no gasp; but he is in the dust,
Stark dead. The queen—I hate the name of her!
So grew the mustard-seed, one moment’s lust.” [via]
“I thought within myself a bitter thing,
Standing abased. The golden marriage ring
The queen had given—how her beauty stank
Now in mine yes, where once their passion drank
Its secret sweets of poison. Let the spring
Of love once dawn—all else hath little thank!” [via]
“I lifted up my eyes. What soul stood there,
Fronting my path? Tall, stately, delicate,
A woman fairer than a pomegranate.
A silver spear her hands of lotus bear,
One shaft of moonlight quivering and straight.
She pointed to the East with flashing eyes:
‘Thou canst not see her—but my Queen shall rise.’
Bowed head and beating heart, with feet unsure
I passed her, trembling, for she was too pure.
I could have loved her. No: she was too wise.
Her presence was to gracious to endure.
‘She did not bid me go and chain me to her,’
I cried, comparing.” [via]
“Again the cursed cry: ‘What quest is this?
Is it worth heaven in thy lover’s kiss?
A queen, a queen, to kiss and never tire!
Thy queen, quick-breathing for your twin desire!’
I shudder, for the mystery of bliss;
I go, heart crying and a soul on fire!” [via]
“The king did start,
Gripped my strong hands, and held me to his heart,
And could not speak a moment. Then he set
A curb of sorrow and subdued its dart.
‘Go! and the blessing of high God attend
Thy path, and lead thee to the doubtful end.
No tongue that secret ever may reveal.
Thy soul is god-like and thy frame is steel;
Thou mayst win the quest—the king, thy friend,
Gives thee his sword to keep thee—Gereth, kneel!
‘I dub thee Earl; arise!’ And then there rings
The queen’s voice: ‘Shall my love not match the king’s?
Here, from my finger drawn, this gem of power
Shall guard thee in some unimagined hour.
It hath strange virtue over mortal things.
I freely give it for thy stirrup’s dower.’
I left the presence. Now the buffeting wind
Gladdens my face—I leave the court behind.
Am I Stark mad? My face grows grim and grave;
I see—O Mary Mother, speak and save!
I stare and stare until mine eyes are blind—
There was no jewel in the ring she gave!” [via]
“A spirit walking in a dream, I went
To the high throne&mdsah;they shook the firmament
With foolish cheers. I knelt before the queen
And wept in silence. Then, as it had been
And angel’s voice and touch, her face she bent,
Lifted and kissed me&mdsah;oh! her lips were keen!
Her voice was softer than a virgin’s eyes:
‘Go! my true knight: for thither, thither lies
The only road for thee; thou hast a prayer
Wafted each hour&mdsah;my spirit will be there!’
Too late I knew what subtle Paradise
Her dreams and prayers portend: too fresh, too fair!
I turned more wretched than myself knew yet.
I told my nameless pain I should forget
Its shadow as it passed.” [via]