She is mine enemy
Hate her, O hate her, she will slay thy soul!
Tannhäuser.
And is my soul not slain within me now?
Yet, I do hate her—in these waking hours.
But in my sleep she grows upon the sense,
A solitary lotus that pales forth
In the wide seas of space and separateness.
That radiance!—Amber-scented voice of light,
Calling my name, ever, ever calling—