THE POET TELLS OF HIS LOVE
How shall I sing of Her that is
My life’s long rapture and despair—
Sorrow eternal—Loveliness,
To whom each heart-beat is a prayer!
Utterly, endlessly, alone
Possessing me, yet unpossessed—
The dark, the drear belovèd One
That takes the tribute of this breast:
Dæmon disconsolate, in vain,
In vain petitioned and implored—
How many a midnight of disdain
Darkly and dreadfully adored!
Beauty, the virgin, evermore
Out of these arms with laughter fled—
Vanished—a voice by slope and shore
Haunting the world—Illusion dread—
Most secret Siren, on whose coast,
’Mid spray of perishing song, are hurled
All desolate lovers, all the lost
Souls, and half-poets of the world:
Through sleepless nights and lonely days
In tears and terror served and sought—
Light beyond light—the supreme Face
That blinds the adoring eyes of thought!
How shall I sing of Her? Nay all,
All song, all sorrow, all silence of
This desperate heart that is Her thrall,
Trembles and tries to tell my love!