I am the priestess
Approach me.
My eyes see more plainly …
BEWARE!
If anyone lays a hand toward him.
Magic of Astarte
Once a curious thing
Seemed horrible
Bent over him
. . . Then he rose!
At that moment,
I have killed him.
And she fainted.
There was a cry
IT CANNOT BE KILLED!
“I tried,” he interrupted.
“Are we all mad?”
The wound, I saw it glitter!
there is nothing.
I didn’t look here
If there was a weapon,
I was curiously averse —
–to disaster
of the whole thing
opposed the idea,
or trance
It was one thought . . .
. . . “I hope not.”
