The far-bleeding Rose of Paradise. (Patreon)

Thus in her hour of wrath, o'er Adam's head Lilith, then first reveal'd, a name of dread, thus in her hour of sorrow: and the rage, that drove the giant-hunters in that age since whelm'd beneath the weltering cataclysm, was the mad flight from her instant abysm and iron sadness and unsatisfied despair of kings that by Euphrates' side rein the wing'd steer or grasp the stony mane of lions dared, if so they might obtain surcease of lingering unnamed distress. And if she kept the word forgetfulness absorb'd, sole ear of sunken sleep, it is to them that wander thro' Persepolis, Ekbatan, or where else o'er arrow'd bricks her snakes make the dry noise of trodden sticks, known and well-known how that revolt was dash'd and cruel keeps with lustral silence wash'd. A name of dread reveal'd: and tho' forgot in strenuous times to whom the lyre was not, yet, when her hour awoke, the peoples heard her coming and the winds no more deferr'd that sweep along the expected day of wrath, and rear'd the soaring aisles along her path to house the massive gloom where she might dwell, conjectured, hovering, impenetrable, while o'er the mortal terror crouch'd beneath the shuddering organ pour'd black wave of death; when man withheld his hand from life, in fear to find her, temptress, in the flesh most dear or on the lowliest ways of simple peace — vain-weening he that thus their feud might cease: ay, and the cynic days that thought them blest to know this earth a plunder-ground confest and calm within them of the glutted beast knew her, the emptiness that, when the feast hath quench'd its lamps, makes, in the invaded hall stray'd steps, reverberated from the wall, sound on the ear like some portentous stride, companion's fixt, to mock our tread, beside, nor near and show his apprehended guise familiar, ease to our intended eyes. Lilith, a name of dread: yet was her pain and loving to her chosen ones not vain hinted, who know what weight of gelid tears afflicts the widow'd uplands of the spheres, and whence the enrapturing breaths are sent that bring a perfume of the secular flowering of the far-bleeding rose of Paradise, that mortal hearts in censer-fume arise unto the heart that were an ardent peace, and whence the sibyl-hints of song, that cease in pale and thrilling silence, lest they wrong her beauty, whose love bade live their fleeting throng, even hers, who is the silence of our thought, as he that sleeps in hush'd Valvins hath taught.

—The Forest of Night - Part 12

By Christopher John Brennan  1870-1932