She ne’er from me can hide thy face and form,
Nor cloaked Oblivion, from streams of Lethe borne.
Ensnare in sable trammel, behind her basalt doors
Thy eyes, thy lips, thy smile,—that ere again
My gaping senses steep
And lull to fragrant sleep.
Fiercer in Morning Sun than in turgid hues of Night
Calcined and adust, parching my thirsting sight
Thy welcome form appears,
Grief-giving while it cheers.