Swept down on me, half lost in pensive dreams,
And like a poppy in some panting noon,
All drooping, bore me to the gates of Hell,—
When on my fragile girlhood closed his arms
As on some seed forlorn Earth’s darkest loam.
Yet think not, Mother, this fierce Son of Night
Brought only sorrow with him, for behold,
In learning to forbear I learned to love;
And battling pale on his impassioned breast
I felt run through my veins some golden pang