There is no peace amid the moonlight and the pines;

Deep in the windless gloom the lamplike thought of you

Abides; and ah, what burning memories pursue

My heart among the pallid marbles!*** Night assigns

Your silver face for wardress of the doors of Sleep;

Beyond the wild, last bourn of dreamland, lo, your eyes

Are on the lonesome, ultimate, undiscovered skies;

Moonlike and dim, you wander ever in the deep

Which is the secret, innermost, unknown abyss

Of my own soul, and in its night your spirit lives.****

Shall I not find the very draught that Lethe gives,

Sweet with your tears, and warm with savour of your kiss?