The Poems of Madison Cawein. Volume 2 (of 5)

ONE NIGHT

I

A night of rain. The wind is out.And I had wished it otherwise:A calm, still night; no scudding skies;Or, in the scud, above the rout,The moon; by whose pale light my eyesMight meet her eyes; the smile that triesTo come but will not; lips, that poutWith seeming anger, all surmise,When I have said “I love your lies”—Lips I shall kiss before she dies.

II

What force this wind has! As it runsAround each unprotecting treeIt seems some beast; and now I seeIts form, its eyes; a woman’s once:—Dark eyes! that blaze as lionlyAs some bayed beast’s, that will not fleeThe pine-knots and derides the guns.—Or is it but the thought in me!The thought of that which is to be,The deed, that rises shadowy?

III

And now the trees and whipping rainConfuse them.... I must drive it hence,The memory of her eyes! the tenseWild look within them of hard pain!…Yet she must die—with every senseStrung to beholding knowledge, whenceMy heart shall be made whole again.—Here I will wait where night is dense.Soon she will come, like Innocence,Thinking her youth is her defense.

IV

And when she leaves,—and none perceives,—The old gray manor, where the eightOld locusts, (twisted shadows), freightWith mossy murmurings its eaves,One moment at the iron gateShe ’ll tarry. Then, with breath abate,Come rustling through the autumn leaves.And I will take both hands and sateMy mouth on hers and say, “You ’re late”;She ’ll laugh to hear I had to wait....

V

O passion of past vows, reviveImagination, and renewThe ardor of love’s language youFor love’s rose-altar kept alive!Repeat the oaths that rang with dewAnd starlight!—Tell her she is trueAs beautiful.—I will contriveTo make her think I have no clueTo all her falseness. I will wooAs once I wooed before I knew.

VI

And we will walk against the wind;The shuffling leaves about our feet;Our ruin, as the wood’s, complete,Because one woman so hath sinnedAnd never suffered. She shall meetNo murder in my eyes; no heatOf fate in holding hand that ’s pinnedTo hers. To make her trust to beat,I ’ll kiss her hand, her hair,—like wheatOf affluent summer,—saying “Sweet.”

VII

And should I bungle in this thing,This purpose that must see her deadTo cure this fever in my head?—What other thing is there to bringSoul satisfaction? when is shedNo real blood, save what makes redThe baulked intention?—I will flingThe mask aside!—But hate hath ledDesire too far now to be fedWith failure. I have naught to dread.

VIII

When we have reached the precipiceThat thwarts the battling of the sea,And wallows out great rocks, that kneeThe giant foam with roar and hiss,I will not cease to coax and beThe anxious lover. Trusting sheWill not suspect my farewell kissUntil it turns a curse, and weSway for an instant totteringly,And she has shrieked some prayer at me.

IX

O let me see wild terror thereUpon her face! the wilder frownOf crime’s apprisal, and renownOf my life’s injury, that bareThis horror with its bloody crown!—No pity, God! For, if her gown,Suspending looseness of her hair,Delay the plunge … the night is brown …My heel must crush her white face down,And Hell and Heaven see her drown.

THE PARTING

She passed the thorn-trees, whose gaunt branches tossedTheir spider-shadows round her; and the breeze,Beneath the ashen moon, was full of frost,And mouthed and mumbled in the sickly trees,Like some starved hag who sees her children freeze.Dry-eyed she waited by the sycamore.Some stars made misty blotches in the sky.And all the wretched willows on the shoreLooked faded as a jaundiced cheek or eye.She felt deep sorrow yet could only sigh.She heard his skiff grind on the river rocksWhistling he came into the shadow madeBy the great tree. He kissed her on her locks;And round her form his eager arms were laid.Passive she stood her purpose unbetrayed.And then she spoke, while still his greeting kissStung in her hair. She did not dare to liftHer face to his; her anguished eyes to hisWhile tears smote crystal in her throat. One riftOf weakness humored might set all adrift.Anger and shame were his. She meekly heard.And then the oar-locks sounded, and her brainRemembered he had said no farewell word;And swift emotion swept her; and againLeft her as silent as a carven pain....She, in the old sad farm-house, wearilyResumed the drudgery of her common lot,Regret remembering.—’Midst old vices, he,Who would have trod on, and somehow did not,The wildflower, that had brushed his feet, forgot.

THE DAUGHTER OF THE SNOW

Though the panther’s footprints show,And the wild-cat’s, in the snow,You will never find a traceOf the footsteps of a certainMaiden with a paler faceThan the drifts that fill and curtainHillside, valley, and the wood,Where the hunter’s wigwam stoodIn the winter solitude.What white beast hath grown the furFor the whiter limbs of her?—Raiment of the frost and iceTo her supple beauty fitting;Wampum strouds, as white as rice,Of the frost’s fantastic knitting,Wrap her form and face complete;Glove her hands with ice; her feetMoccasin with beaded sleet.’Though he knew she made a hauntOf the dell, it did not daunt:Where the hoar-frost mailed each treeIn soft, phantom alabaster,And hung ghosts of bud and beeOn each autumn-withered aster;By the frozen waterfall,There she stood, beneath its wall,In the ice-sheathed chaparral.Where the beech-tree and the larchBuilt a white triumphal archFor the Winter, marching downWith his icy-armored leaders;Where each hemlock had a crown,And pale diadems the cedars;Where the long icicle shone,There he saw her, standing lone,Like a mist-wraith turned to stone.And she led him many a mileWith her hand-wave and her smile,And the printless swiftness ofFeet of frost, and snowy flutterOf her raiment; now above,Now below, the boughs of utterWinter whiteness. Led him onTill the dawn and day were gone,And the evening star hung wan....Hunters found him dead, they tell,In the winter-wasted dell,With his quiver and his bow,Where the cascade ran a rafter,White, of crystal and of snow;Where he listened to her laughter,Promises, that were as farAs the secrets of a star,And her love that naught could mar.And her countenance is thisStamped on his: and this her kiss,Haunting still his mouth and eyes,Colder than the cold December:This her passion, that defiesAll control, the stars rememberFilled him, killed him: this is sheClinging to him, neck and knee,Where his limbs sank wearily.

THE SPIRIT OF THE STAR

(Love Spiritual)

“This union of the human soul with the divine æthereal substance of the universe, is the ancient doctrine of Pythagoras and Plato.”—Divine Legation.

There is love for love: the heavenTeems with possibilities:And, when love is purely given,Love returns from where none sees:And such love becomes a ladderReaching heavenward, from the sadderNight of Earth; from out the drivenDarkness of its miseries.There is love for love: and Beauty,From her star above the Earth,Smiles, and straight each cloud of sootyNight takes on celestial worth:And, like some white flower unfolding,Love is born; and softly holdingUp its face, as if in duty,Grows to that which gave it birth.Earth and Heaven are prolificOf love’s wonders: and the skyTeems with spirits, fair, terrific,Who, if loved, shall never die:Dæmons, haggard as their mountains;Naiads, sparkling as their fountains;Sylphids of the winds, pacificAs the stars they tremble by....Such was I; who long had waitedFor the everlasting sleep:Where, around me, worlds dilated,Waned or waxed within the deep:Where, beneath my star, a planetWhirled and shone, like glowing granite,While around it ne’er abatedOne white satellite its sweep.I was sad: my beauty wearied,Useless as a scentless budFading ere it blooms. The serriedMists of worlds, as red as blood,Streamed beneath me. And the starryFirmament above bent, barryWith the wild auroras, ferriedOf the meteors’ sisterhood.Something drew me, unreturning,Filled me with a finer flame

The Spirit of the Star

I was loveless with a yearningAfter love that never came;All my astral being burningTowards that world without a name,World I knew not: till, with splendorOf compulsion that was tender,Something drew me, unreturning,Filled me with a finer flame.So I left my star, whose lancesPierced with arrowy gold the heatOf heaven’s hyacinth; its glancesSaddened me. No more to meet,Then I left my star; and, beatingDownward, heard it still repeatingFar farewells; and through the trancesOf dark space its face looked sweet.Passed your moon: a melancholyDisc at first; then, vast and sharp,Lo, a world, all white and holy!Where, upon the crystal scarpOf a mountain,—like a storyOf high Heaven revealed in glory,—Gradual, as if music slowlyBuilt it, rolling from a harp,—Rose a city: cloudy nacreWere its walls, that towered roundAcre upon arch-piled acreOf a marble-terraced ground:Caryatids alternatedWith Atlantes, sculpture-weighted:And its gates—some god the maker—Rhombs of symboled diamond.In the white light glittered swimmingDomes of dazzle: swirl on swirl,Temples lifted columns, brimmingCrystal flame, that seemed to whirl:Battlemented moonstone darkled;Palaces, pale-pillared, sparkled,Cloudy opal: and, far dimming,Aqueducts of ghostly pearl.Streaming steeples shone, of dædalEmblem; each an obelisk:Minarets, each one a needle,Balancing a bubble-disc;Some of diamond, like a blisterFrozen; some of topaz-glister,Vinous; in whose blinding middleBlazed an orb of burning bisque.And I saw where, silvery slanted,A vast pyramidic heapRose of spar; whereon was plantedThe acropolis of Sleep,—God of these:—that, looming higher,Wrought of seeming ice and fire,Where pale rainbow-colors panted,Gleamed above the lunar deep.Robed in white simarre and chiton,Visions filled its every square,Moving like a finer light onLight: and in the glory thereMusic rang and golden laughter;And before each shape, and after,Radiance went, that shadowed white, onTemple and on palace stair.Though they called me, I descendedEarthward. For great longing drewMe and, drawing me, was blendedWith your world. I never knewIt was Earth, until,—forsakingHeaven,—I beheld it taking,—A great azure sphere,—its splendidWay along the singing blue.And when night came, here, above you,—Sleeping by your folded sheepOn the hills,—I stooped: whereof youDreamed: I kissed you in your sleep:I, your destiny, who wrought itSo you knew me: you, who thought itNot so strange that I should love you,I a spirit of the deep.’Twas your love that sought and found me,Drew me from that star-life sad;Won my soul to yours and bound meWith such love as none hath had:I am she, you may remember,That fair star that seemed an emberO’er you, that you loved.—Around meWrap your arms now and be glad.Look above: what seems a petal,Burning, of a rose; that farPoint of radiance, bright as metal,Fiery silver, is your star!Look above you: rise unto it.Let it lead you now who drew itDown to Earth, where shadows settle!—On that star no shadows are!

THE SPIRIT OF THE VAN

(Love Ideal)

“Among the mountains of Carmarthen, lies a beautiful and romantic piece of water, named The Van Pools. Tradition relates, that after midnight, on New Year’s Eve, there appears on this lake a being named The Spirit of the Van. She is dressed in a white robe, bound by a golden girdle; her hair is long and golden; her face is pale and melancholy.”—Keightley’s “Fairy Mythology.”

Midsummer-night; the Van. Through night’s wan noon,Wading the storm-scud of an eve of storm,Pale o’er Carmarthen’s peaks the mounting moon.—Wilds of Carmarthen! sombre heights, that swarmGirdling this water, as old giants mightCrouch, guarding some enchanted gem of charm,—Wilds of Carmarthen, that for me each nightReëcho prayers and pleadings,—all the yearUnanswered,—made to listening waters white!Mountains, behold me yet again! Bend near!Behold her lover! hers, that shape of snow,Who dwells amid these pools; who will not hearMy heart’s wild pleading, calling loud, now low,Unhappy, to her, ’mid the lonely hills.Whene’er a ripple trembles into glow,Where yeasty moonshine scuds the foam, straight thrillsHeart’s expectation through my veins, and highWith “she!” each pulse the exultation fills.But she ’tis never. Once … and then! would I,Would I had perished, so beholding!—World,’Twas you, O world, who would not let me die!Once I beheld her!—If some fiend had curledStiff talons in my hair, and, twisting tight,Had raised me high, then into Hell had hurled;Fresh from that vision of her beauty white,With Heaven in my soul, I, unamerced,Shackled with tortures, yet might mock Hell’s spite.Immortal memory, quench in me this thirst!—O starlike vision, that a moment cloveMy sight, and then for ever left me curst!Oh, make me mad with love, with all thy love!Me, me, who seek thee ’mid these wilds when gloomStorms or drip gold the sibylline stars above!—Let thy high coming in a flash consumeThe light of all the stars! and make me mad,Mad with love’s madness! fill me with sweet doom!Sleep will I not now, for my soul is sad:For, should I sleep, there might come other dreams,—Sadder than thou art,—in thy beauty cladAnd all thy tyranny. To me it seemsBetter to wake here, underneath this pine,Until thy face upon my vision gleams.—Thou, who art wrought of elements divine,And I of crasser clay, clay that will think,“Since I am hers, why should she not be mine?”Again, its usual phantom, on the brinkOf thy lone lake, I ask thee: “Must I yearnForever, haunted of that vision’s wink?”—When, glassing out great circles, which did urnSome intense essence of interior light,(As clouds, that clothe the moon, unbinding, burn,Riven, erupt her orb, triumphant white,)I saw, midmost the Van, a feathering fireDilating ivory-wan.—Expectant nightTiptoed attentive, fearful to suspire.—Wherefrom arose—what white divinity?What godhead sensed with glory and desire?Born for the moment for the eyes of me!Then re-absorbed into the brassy gloomOf whispering waves that sighed their ecstasy.Thou! in whose path harmonious colors bloom,Pale pearl and lilac, asphodel and rose,—Like many flow’rs auroral of perfume,—Thou leftst me thus, to marvel as who knowsHe is not dead and yet it seems he is,Since all his soul with spirit-rapture glows.—O sylph-like brow! lips like an angel’s kiss!High immortality! whose face was suchAs starlight in a lily’s loveliness!…The gold that bound thee seemed too base to clutchThy chastity, though clear as golden gumThat almugs sweat, and fragrance to the touch!Thy hair—not hair!—seemed rays, like those that comeStrained through the bubble of a chrysolite.—No word I said: thy beauty struck me dumb.Thy face, that is upon my soul’s quick sightEternal seared, hath made of me a shade,A wandering shadow of the day and night:A seeker ’mid the hoary hills for aid,The sole society of my sick heart, whoShuns all companionship of man and maid:Who, comrade of the mountain blossoms blue,And intimate of old trees, goes dreaming they,—As in that legendary world that drewOracles from lips in oaks—, may sometime sayProphetic precepts to it: how were wonA spirit loved to love a mortal;—yea,In vain.—But one day, frog-like in the sun,Beside a cave,—the nightshade vines made rankAnd hairy henbane, where huge spiders spun,—Wrinkled as Magic, I a grizzled, lank,Squat something startled, naught save skin and hair;With eyes wherein dwelt demons; flames, that shrankAnd grew;—familiars, who fixed me with glareAs, raising claw-like hands when I drew near,Frog-like he croaked, “Thou fool! go seek her there!Woo her with thy heart’s actions! making clearThy soul’s white passage for her coming feet!—In! in! thou fool! plunge in! Fear naught but fear!”Yet I have waited many weeks. Repeat.Acts of the heart with passionate offeringOf love whose anguish makes it seven times sweet.Still all in vain, in vain. To-night I bringMy self alone; my soul unfearing, see!My soul unto thee!—Shall the clay still clingClogging fulfillment? and achievement beBalked still by flesh?—no! let me in—to die,Haply; or, for a moment’s mystery,Gaze in thine eyes: one splendid instant lieIn thy white arms and bosom; and thy kiss,My elemental immortality!—Part of thy breathing waves, to laugh or hissIn foam; or winds, that rock the awful deeps,Or build with song vast temples for thy bliss.Wherein, responsive as thy white hand sweepsThe chords of some sad shell, I’ll dream and roamThrough glaucous chambers where the green day sleeps.Dead not with death, what secrets hath thy homeNot mine then, epoched in exultant foam?…Deeper, down deeper! yea, at last I come!

THE CAVERNS OF KAF

(Love Sensual)

“‘Where am I?’ cried he; ‘what are these dreadful rocks? these valleys of darkness? are we arrived at the horrible Kaf?’”—Vathek.

One, Benreddin, I have heard,Near the town of Mosul sleeping,In a dream beheld a bird,Wonderful, with plumes of sweepingWhiteness, crowned pomegranate-red:And, it seemed, his soul it led,Brilliant as a blossom, keepingNear the Tigris as it fled.Following, at last he cameTo a haggard valley, shoulderedUnder peaks that had no name:Where it vanished. ’Mid the boulderedSavageness a woman, fair,In a white simarre, stood there,Auburn-haired; around whom smolderedPensive lights of purple air.And she led him down to vastCaves of sardonyx, whose ceilingDomed one chrysoberyl. BlastOn blast of music,—stealingOut of aural atmospheres,—Beat like surf upon his ears;Then receded, faintly pealingPsalteries and dulcimers.Living figures seemed to heaveHigh the walls, where, wild, embattled,Warred Amshaspand and the Deev:Over all two splendors rattledArms of Heaven, arms of Hell;Forms of flame that seemed to swellGodlike: Aherman who battledWith Ormuzd he could not quell.There she left him wond’ring; tillThe reverberant music, drifting,Strong beyond his utmost will,Drew him onward where, high liftingPillar and entablature,Vast with emblem, yawned a door—Valves of liquid lightning, shiftingIn and out and up and o’er.Through the door he swept: deep-domed,Green with serpentine and beryl,Loomed a cavern, crusted, foamed,Tortuous with gems of peril:Difficult, a colonnadeSeemed, of satin-spar, to braidDeeps of labyrinthed and sterileTiger-spar that, twisting, rayed.Dizzy stones of magic priceCrammed volute and loaded corbel:Irridescent shafts of iceLeapt: with long reëchoed warbleWaters unto waters sang:Crystal arc and column sprangInto fire as each marbleFountain flung its foam that rang.And around him, filled with sound,Streams of resonant colors jetted:Rainbow surf that interwoundCrypts and arcades, crescent-fretted:Mists of citron and of roon;Lemon lights that mocked the moon;Shot with scarlet, veined and netted,Beating golden hearts of tune.Suns arose, of blinding blue;Moons of green-dilating splendor:In whose centers slowly grewSpots like serpents’ eyes that, slender,Glared; at first, prismatic beams;Then, intolerable gleams;Hissing trails of fire, tenderAs an houri’s breath that dreams.Characters of Arabic,Cabalistic, red as coral,Flashed through violet veils, so quickNone might read: as if, in quarrel,Iran wrote of Turan thereHate and scorn, or, everywhere,Wrought some talisman of moralStrength no Afrit’s heart would dare.Sounding splendors drew him onTo another cavern; hollow;Hewn of alabastar wan;Lucid; where his gaze could followCaves in caves; transparent flightsRolling, lost in moving lights,Glaucous gold: he like a swallowO’er a lake the morning smites.Down the dome flashed out and inInstant faces of the Peris:Restless eyes of Deevs and JinnIn the walls watched: unseen FaeriesOut of rainbows rained and tossedFlowers of fire full of frost;Blossoms where the fire varies,Gold and green and crimson-mossed.Then there met him, face to face,Seven odalisques of Heaven,Swinging in a silver spaceFlaming censers: and the seven,Crowned with stars of burning green,Seemed to turn to incense; seen,As it rose, to be a drivenHippogrif, or rosmarine.Aloes, Nard, and Ambergris,Sandal, Frankincense, and Civet,—Genii of the fragrances,—Rein each winged aroma; give itSpurs and race it down the lullOf the caverns, clouded dullWith wild manes of musk; now vivid,Vaporous white and wonderful.And Benreddin’s aching soul,In each sense intoxicated,Reached, at last, what seemed the goalOf all passion: golden-gated,Vast, a fountain: where he sawLimbs of light without a flaw;Breasts and arms of bloom; that waitedFor his soul to nearer draw.Houri faces shimmered there;Fluid forms.—It, with a thunderOf wild music, like the hairOf a genie, flamed from underCaverns of the demon-world:Filled with voices, high it hurled,Calling him, with beckoning wonderOf cœrulean forms that swirled.And with burning lips and eyesIn he plunged: hoarse laughter greeted,Demon laughter: then sad sighs,Dying downward: passion-heatedHands seemed drawing him away,Downward: where a rocking rayFlamed and swung, and Eblis-sheetedShadows wandered ghostly gray.* * *And, ’tis said, that he was young,Young that morning. When the darting,Anguish-throated bulbuls sung,In the silent starlight starting,One, a Baghdad merchant, ledBy the hoarness of its head,Found what seemed a mummy: partingHair from brow, Benreddin—dead.

THE SALAMANDER

(Love Dæmonic)

“The Fire-Philosophers, and the Rosicrucians, or Illuminati, taught that all knowable things (both of the soul and of the body) were evolved out of fire, and finally resolvable into it: and that fire was the last and the only-to-be known God: as that all things were capable of being searched down into it, and all things were capable of being thought up into it.”—The Rosicrucians.

Once she breathed upon my eyes,Touched the soul that dreamed within me;All the magic that might win meWhispered to my heart with sighs—Darkness can not make them lies!…Bring me moly, hellebore!Mix them for my soul’s nepenthe,For my spirit’s dread Amenti,For the curse that comes once moreWith unutterable lore!Sunlight, starlight or the moon,Stormlight, firelight or the sheeningWitchlight intimate no meaningOf her glory’s plenilune;Of her soul’s unriddled rune,And most awful beauty! norActual, nor yet ideal!—Insubstantial and yet real;Partly flame and partly star,Yet no part of what these are.I am hers and—woe is mine!…Has she drugged me with the sadnessOf some elemental madness?—Like a demigod I pine’Twixt the mortal and divine....When I see her, lo, she standsIn the luminous electreOf a star: a smiling spectreWith white scintillating handsLuring to unhallowed lands.Then, behold, in fearful file,A mirage of tower and terrace,Lawn and mountain range,—that buriesFlame in frost,—looms! mile on mileOf her crescent-glowing Isle:Where the lurid waters lullShores that roll the rainbow fire;Where, with living lute and lyre,Rose-red, swiftly as a gull,Glides her star-like galley’s hull.And, behold, before I know,I am where her walls of amber,Towers of limpid ruby, clamberOver terraces belowSummits of refulgent snow.Lambent lazuli and shellColonnade her courts of marble;Where, of lightning, fountains warbleOut of basined pearl, or wellInto hollowed carbuncle.Rosy silver seems her skin,And a flame her arm commanding,With its gleaming hand, me, standingAt her gates, to enter in,Burning as a Seraphin.Lucid darkness are her eyes,Where the frozen fire smolders;And upon her shining shoulders,Like a tangible glitter, liesAuburn hair like sunset skies.Mouth of sibilant soft flame;Lilith lips, whose roses lightenWith illusive love; and brightenWith wild passion and the nameOf desire no man may tame.Passion, and the thoughts that wedLove and loathing; such caressesOf sweet touch as naught expressesHere on Earth, yet full of dread,Madness, whereof death is bred.She hath drawn me to her lips;Borne me through her palace portal;And the fire, which is immortal,From me like a garment slips—Ah, the spirit-part’s eclipse!As when moon and planet swoonUnto each, my body kindles,Strangely, while my spirit dwindles,Like the Earth-o’ershadowed moon,Darkening from lune to lune.Then she laughs; and leads me whereCloudy, wild, chameleon colorMarbles halls with hues, the dullerFor her astral presence there,Beaming white with beaming hair:Where, in roses purple pale,—Dropping like a ruby bubbleThrough the moon dust,—“double double,”Throbs the crimson nightingale,There she lures me with some tale.Or to where the scarlet snakeCoils beneath great flaming flowers;Where the musk mimosa bowersRoll their rosy clouds, and makeSunset heavens of each lake.Where the bees and moths go by,Fiery diamond; opal-burningButterflies, and iris-turningPeacock-painted birds, that vieWith the flow’rs, like fragments flyOf wild rainbow: Where, in rills,Down the rocks, that lichens redden,Constellated moss and leadenFungus glow; and all the hills,As with flames, the orchid fills.Where, in coruscating light,Glare the golden-checkered zinnias;And the bugle-bloomed gloxinias,Making morning of each height,Float like mists of ruby white.There, beneath some blazing vine,Where the liquid moonlight glittersOf a river,—coral littersRed with grail,—like prisms in wineI have watched the fishes shine.Or, o’er sunset-colored moss,Glow-worms trail their beryls; sprinklingGreen the smouldering shade; while, twinkling,With convulsive sapphire gloss,Fireflies rained blue lights across.Where the reeds seemed rays of rose,And white mirrored moons, the lotus—Each a spirit giving noticeOf the inner light that glowsWhere the under water flows—Shapes arose of flashing spray:—Where, a wild auroral splendor,Rolled the forest,—emerald-tenderAs the light of breaking day,—Beckoned forms of starry ray.Through the violetish light,Winged with nautilus and lilyFlame, adown the forests stillyVistas, moony whirls of white,Floated shapes with eyes of night.I must follow where she leads.—Blinding portals of her castleTo my entering feet are facile....Love no terrible trumpet needsAt her gates to bugle deeds....Lo, my being never veilsAught from her. To her caressesAll my heart knows it confessesWith a faith that never fails,Though it hears the truth that wailsIn its soul’s admonishment,Of the curse that sits in sessionIn each amorous expressionOf her love; its violentFlame, by which my life is rent.I have drained the feverish cupOf all darkness. Made a lemanOf an elemental demon;And my soul lies, staring up,Draining poison at each sup.—While she smiles on me ’tis well:I shall follow, though she make meWhat her self is; never wake meFrom the dream I can not tell,That is neither heaven nor hell:Where I drink mesmeric goldOf wild vision,—that romancesIn informing Protean fanciesWith a beauty never old,And emotion never cold.—Let me drink and never wakeFrom the trances that environMe, and ’neath the subtle sirenSee the demon, like a snake,With destroying eyes that ache.While the slow laconic lookOf her eyes express no censure,Gazing in them, I adventure,—Far beyond the wisest book,—Ways her serpent fancy took.Yet I know I reverenceOne whose gaze in God’s negation;One who, like an emanationOf all evil, chains my senseWith satanic influence.Yet, while still I hear her say,“One more kiss before the morning!One more bliss for love’s adorning!One more kiss ere break of day,”Still my soul with her must stay.Stay, nor know, nor ever see!Till her basilisk beauty flashes,And the curse, from out the ashesOf her passion, fiery,Strikes—destroying utterly.