Bitter is the taste of Your lips, Belovèd!
* * * * *
Though I lie in the darkness, yet often do I remember You—and wonder—
And the touch of Your lips, how strange, and how sad.
PROUD DOOM
The crucifixion of Beauty on the cross
Of mortal destiny—the eternal law—
The thorny crown of death about her brows
Fills me with anger—then with sudden awe: