Black dreams; the pale and sorrowful desire

Whose eyes have looked on Lethe, and have seen,

Deep in the sliding ebon tide serene,

Their own vain light inverted; ashen fire,

With wasted lilies, late and languishing;

Autumnal roses blind with rain; slow foam

From desert-sinking seas, with honeycomb

Of aconite and poppy—these I bring

With this my bitter, barren love to thee;

And from the grievous springs of memory,

Far in the great Maremma of my heart,

I proffer thee to drink; and on thy mouth,

With the one kiss wherein we meet and part,

Leave fire and dust from quenchless leagues of drouth.