Because you have not touched me with your lips,
Nor yielded with your eyes. It is my lot
To sit, an outcast on some barren spot,
And watch the summer clouds, like treasure-ships,
Sailing beyond me toward the evening.
The beauty there is infinite, is blue!—
But pitiless as effigies of you,
And bitter with remembrance of the spring.
XIII.
I am a madman in the wilderness: