  Far in the purple valleys of illusion I see her waiting, like the soul of music, With deep eyes, lovelier than cerulean pansies, Shadow and fire, yet merciless as poison; With red lips sweeter than Arabian storax, Yet bitterer than myrrh. O tears and kisses! O eyes and lips, that haunt my soul for ever! Again Spring walks transcendent on the mountains: The woods are hushed: the vales are blue with shadows: Above the heights, steeped in a thousand splendours, The sunset's wild sciography: and slowly The moon treads heaven's proscenium,—night's stately White queen of love and tragedy and madness. Again I know forgotten dreams and longings; Ideals lost; desires dead and buried Beside the altar sacrifice erected Within the heart's high sanctuary. Strangely Again I know the horror and the rapture, The utterless awe, the joy akin to anguish, The terror and the worship of the spirit. Again I feel her eyes pierce through and through me; Her deep eyes, lovelier than imperial pansies, Velvet and flame, through which her fierce will holds me, To sad, unsatisfied and animal yearnings, Wild, unrestrained—the brute within the human— To fling me panting on her mouth and bosom. Again I feel her lips like ice and fire, Her red lips, odorous as Arabian storax, Fragrance and fire, within whose kiss destruction Lies serpent-like. Intoxicating languors Resistlessly embrace me, soul and body; And we go drifting, drifting—she is laughing— Outcasts of God, into the deep's abysm. |
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