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 forever!

Again Spring walks transcendent on the mountains:

The woods are hushed: the vales are full of shadows:

Above the heights, steeped in a thousand splendors,

Like some vast canvas of the gods, hangs burning

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 feel her eyes pierce through and through me;

Her deep eyes, lovelier than imperial pansies,

Velvet and flame, through which her strong will holds me,

Powerless and tame, and draws me on and onward

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.