’Twixt us, the daylight world beholds
Curtained in dusk and splendid folds.
What’s left but—all of me to take?
I am the Three’s; prevent them, slake
Your thirst! ’Tis said, the Arab sage
In practising with gems can loose
Their subtle spirit in his cruce
And leave but ashes: so, sweet mage,
Leave them my ashes when thy use
Sucks out my soul, thy heritage!