I held my chalice up to heaven’s full view,
The August stars dropped down their golden dew,
The skyey balms exhaled about my bed.
Alas, I loved the darkness, not the light;
The deadly shadows, not the bending blue,
Spoke to my trancëd heart, made false seem true,
And drowned my spirit in the deeps of night.
O Painter of the flowers, O God, most sweet,
Dost say my spirit for the light is meet?”
“Alas, the poor flower!” said Vivienne. “Like some mortals it loved the darkness rather than the light. And yet how touching the final question.”