The sun is enveloped in crape! like it,
O Moon of my Life! wrap thyself up in shade;
At will, smoke or slumber, be silent, be staid,
And dive deep down in Dispassion's dark pit.
I cherish thee thus! But if 'tis thy mood,
Like a star that from out its penumbra appears,
To float in the regions where madness careers,
Fair dagger! burst forth from thy sheath! 'tis good.
Yea, light up thine eyes at the Fire of Renown!
Or kindle desire by the looks of some clown!
Thine All is my joy, whether dull or aflame!
Just be what thou wilt, black night, dawn divine,
There is not a nerve in my trembling frame
But cries, "I adore thee, Beelzebub mine!"
Semper Eadem
"From whence it comes, you ask, this gloom acute,
Like waves that o'er the rocky headland fall?"
—When once our hearts have gathered in their fruit,
To live is a curse! a secret known to all,
A grief, quite simple, nought mysterious,
And like your joy—for all, both loud and shrill,
Nay cease to clamour, be not e'er so curious!
And yet although your voice is sweet, be still!
Be still, O soul, with rapture ever rife!
O mouth, with the childish smile! Far more than Life,
The subtle bonds of Death around us twine.
Let—let my heart, the wine of falsehood drink,
And dream-like, deep within your fair eyes sink,
And in the shade of thy lashes long recline!
All Entire
The Demon, in my lofty vault,
This morning came to visit me,
And striving me to find at fault,
He said, "Fain would I know of thee;
"Among the many beauteous things,
—All which her subtle grace proclaim—
Among the dark and rosy things,
Which go to make her charming frame,
"Which is the sweetest unto thee"?
My soul! to Him thou didst retort—
"Since all with her is destiny,
Of preference there can be nought.
When all transports me with delight,
If aught deludes I can not know,
She either lulls one like the Night,
Or dazzles like the Morning-glow.
That harmony is too divine,
Which governs all her body fair,
For powerless mortals to define
In notes the many concords there.
O mystic metamorphosis
Of all my senses blent in one!
Her voice a beauteous perfume is,
Her breath makes music, chaste and wan.
Sonnet XLIII
What sayest thou, to-night, poor soul so drear,
What sayest—heart erewhile engulfed in gloom,
To the very lovely, very chaste, and very dear,
Whose god-like look hath made thee to re-bloom?
To her, with pride we chant an echoing Hymn,
For nought can touch the sweetness of her sway;
Her flesh ethereal as the seraphim,
Her eyes with robe of light our souls array.
And be it in the night, or solitude,
Among the streets or 'mid the multitude,
Her shadow, torch-like, dances in the air,
And murmurs, "I, the Beautiful proclaim—
That for my sake, alone ye love the Fair;
I am the Guardian Angel, Muse and Dame!"