Hildegard the dÆmons name

Her, who meets me on the mountain:

Her, whose hair is like the flame

Of a sunset-fevered fountain:

I can tell her by her eyes,

Dreadful eyes of bitter beryl,

Where the anguish never dies,

And the suffering soul sits sterile

In such light as ever lies

On the unsailed seas of peril.

How we met I never knew.

Once I turned—and there she trembled

Near me, glimmering like the dew

In the sessions of assembled

Flowers.—Hers some influence

Of soft, serpent magnetism,

I can not escape. She treads

Noiseless as the forest flowers

Walked on by the wind; their heads

Pavements for the mottled hours:

She is whiter than the trees

When their blossoms are unsheathing;

She is lissome as the ease

Of the lilied water wreathing;

She is subtle as the breeze

Through the summer foliage breathing.

When she speaks, within my ears,

Like wild music heard in fever

Is her voice; and it appears

That my soul can never leave her:

Babylonian necromance,

Oldest witcheries,—that harrow

Yet compel,—are hers; her glance

Holds me; and my very marrow

Thus she binds me with her gaze,

While her white hands weigh my shoulders;

And my weak will swings and sways

To her gaze that burns and smolders.

So she draws me far away,

Under boughs where summer dallies:

Over peaks of purple day:

Far away through Eden alleys:

All the way is one long May

Till we come to her dark valleys.

There black tempest treads the peaks;

Iron skies are gulfed asunder,

Whence the lightning's lava leaks,

Vomiting the hosts of thunder.

Here she kisses me till red

With my heart's blood are her kisses;

Then my soul is seized with dread,

For it knows no woman this is:

Yea, behold! it sees instead

But a milk-white snake that hisses.