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

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.

LYANNA

“These elementary beings, we are told, were by their constitution more long-lived than man, but with this essential disadvantage, that at death they wholly ceased to exist. In the meantime they were inspired with an earnest desire for immortality; and there was one way left for them, by which this desire might be gratified. If they were so happy as to awaken in any of the initiated (Rosicrucians) a passion, the end of which was marriage, then the sylph became immortal.”—Godwin’s “Lives of the Necromancers.”

Summer came over the Indian OceanGirdled with fire, tiaraed with light;Her eyes all languor, her lips—a potionTo quaff—of poppy. And gold and whiteShe flashed and sparkled; all gleam and motion,All blush and blossom she came; and I,Of the race of the sylphs, o’er the Indian OceanFollowed her through the sky.Self-exiled so from the sylphs that cluster,Pulsing with pearl and burning with blue,In domes of the dawn,—where the organs blusterLow of the winds,—where they glow like dewAs the day dreams up, and their armies muster,Ranges of glitter, in cloudy gold,At the gates of the Dawn, of blinding luster,To forth when her gates unfold.For Summer murmured me, “Follow! follow!”Whispered one word that was all of love.—Winged with the speed of the sweeping swallow,I followed the word she had breathed above:“Follow! follow!”—the god ApolloNever followed, with speed as strongThe flying nymph through holt and hollow,As I that word of song.Fleet as the winds are fleet, yea, and fleeterFar than the stars that throb, like foam,Through the firmament’s blue, in musical metreWinnowed my wings; and the golden gloamRang; and life was a passion, completerThan a life in Eden; and love,—a lyreThat sang in my heart and made life sweeterWith hope,—a leaping fire.Thus to the north my wings went mayingRadiant ways, till a castle shoneGaunt on great cliffs, with the late skies grayingO’er walls of war and their towers lone,With tortuous steps to the sea, where, spraying,Thundered the breakers; and terrace and stair,Rock o’er the waters, rose rosy and rayingDeep in the sunset’s glare.A dewdrop burns when the dawn lights prickle:And all my being tingled with light,Bloomed when I saw her, tarrying fickle,White on the castled height:Slender she shone as the moon in sickle,The slim new-moon, like a pearl-pale streak;And golden, too, as the honey-trickleOf combs where the wax is weak.In dreams I came to her, lo! as a vision:Yea, by her side as a dream I stood;To her innermost spirit I sighed my mission,In the vestal ear of her maidenhood:And she deemed me a dream; and I made a prisonOf my arms for her soul while she, smiling, slept:Her body lay still, but her soul had arisen,And looked on my face and wept:“Lyanna, I hoop thee with arms of fire!”—My words were music, a harp afloat,—“Lyanna, my heart is a vibrant wire,Thy love is its only note.Let it sing forever. Let it sound entire,Full as the angels’ who hover and harpTo the glory that’s God, like a golden lyreBorne in a beam that is sharp....“Behold me, thy rose! full of flame and splendor!Thy rose to pluck: thy ruby bloom:Thy sylphid rose, with eyes that are tender;Lips that are fire; and limbs of perfumeAnd fragrant fire: thy heart’s defender!Thy airy lover!” … And, bending above,Sweeter my speech than a flower’s that, slender,Tells to the stars its love.Lo, as I spoke, with thoughts that thicken,Her heart seemed filled; and she spoke; but sleepShadowed her words, till my kiss did quickenAnd free, like stars from the night that leap:—“Long I have waited; and long did sickenTo clasp thee thus, O my rose of love!Oft have I dreamed of thee, yea, and was strickenWith joy at the thought thereof.“White are the clouds; but I saw thee whiter’Mid dazzling domes of the dawn; and knewTho’ bright are God’s stars, that thine eyes were brighter,Brighter and burning blue.And my heart was thine, though it held thee slighterThan hues that the mists of the morning take:And waited and yearned, and the yearning tighterThan tears in the hearts that break.“‘Lyanna! Lyanna!’ I heard thee everCalling ‘Lyanna,’ a ripple of flame:‘Lyanna! Lyanna!’ like song forever;And I marveled at my name.The sound was such—that if stars could severAnd silver-syllable a word of beams,So would it sound.—I turned; but neverBeheld thee, only in dreams.“Thou walkedst a beauty afar: a glitterOf gleaming aroma: and I, with moan,Reached thee my arms: but thy gaze was bitter,Calmer and sterner than stone:Avoiding thou passedst in scorn: a sitter,I seemed, on the uttermost bounds of bliss:When, lo! on the wind,—a flame, a flitterOf fire,—thy laugh, and thy kiss!”—I had won her love. And, behold! the thunderTrumpeted tempest: I heard the seasLunge at the walls like a roaring wonder,And the rain-wind sing in the trees.—Lyanna my bride.—And the heavens asunderRushed—chasms of glaring storm, where pouredThe thunder’s cataracts, rolling under—And showed me, horde on horde,The shouting spirits of storm.—The portalOf sleep was riven; she rose, and saw:And I said to her soul, “Of the utterly mortalMine the eternal lot and law.”—“I love thee!” she answered.—And I, “ImmortalAm I through thy love!” … And so we fled....Behold! when they came in the morn, astartle,Men whispered—“Lyanna is dead!”

THE SPIRITS OF LIGHT AND DARKNESS

Voices of DarknessEre the birth of Death and of Time,And of Hell, with its tears and its torments:Ere the waves of heat and of rime,And the winds to the heavens were as garments:Cloud-like in the womb of Space,Mist-like from her monster womb,We sprang, a myriad raceOf thunder and tempest and gloom.Voices of LightAs from the evil goodSprings, and desire:As the white lily’s hoodBuds from the mire:So from this midnight broodSprang we with fire.Voices of DarknessWe had lain for long ages asleepIn her bosom, a bulk of torpor,When down through the vasts of the deepClove a sound, like the notes of a harper:Clove a sound, and the horrors grewTumultuous with turbulent night,With whirlwinds of blackness that blew,And storm that was godly in might.And the walls of our dungeon were shatteredLike the crust of a fire-wrecked world:As torrents of clouds that are scattered,From the womb of the deep we were hurled.Voices of LightUs in unholy thoughtPatiently lying,Eöns of violence wrought,Violence defying;When, on a mighty wind,Voiced of a godly mind,Big with a motive kind,Girdled with wonder,Flame and a strength of song,Rolling vast light along,Thundered the Word, and WrongVanished,—and we were strong,Strong as the thunder.Voices of DarknessWe people the lower spaces,Where our cities of silence make scornOf the sun, and our shadowy facesAre safe from the splendors of morn.Our homes are wrecked worlds and each planetWhose sun is a light that is sped;Bleak moons, whose cold bodies of graniteAre hollow and flameless and dead.Voices of LightWe in the living sunLive like a passion:Ere the sad Earth begunWe and the sun were one,As God did fashion.Lo! from our burning hands,Flung like inspired brands,Sowed we the worlds, like sands,Countless as ocean:And ’tis our breath gives life,Life to those stars, all rifeWith iridescent strife,Music and motion.Voices of DarknessWe joy in the hate of all mortals;Inspire their crimes and the thoughtThat falters and halts at the portalsOf actions, intentions unwrought.We cover the face of to-morrow:We frown in the hours that be:We breathe in the presence of sorrow:And death and destruction are we.Voices of LightWe are man’s hope and ease,Joy and his pleasure;Authors of love and peace,Love that shall never cease,Free as the azure.Lo! we but look, and lightHeartens the world with might,Vanquishes death and nightHate and its burnings:And from our bosoms streamBeauty and yearningsFor a diviner dream,Higher discernings.Voices of the Break of DayMorning and birth are ours;Light that is blownFrom our fair lips; and flowers,Dropped from our hands in showers,Seeds that are sown:Song and the bursting buds,Life of the fields and floods;Strength that’s full-grown:And, from our beryl jars,Filled with the clouds and stars,Pour we the winds and dew;While by our eyes of blueDarkness is rent in two,Conquered and strown.Voices of the DawnYe in your darkness areDark and infernal;Subject to death and mar!But in the spaces far,Like our effulgent star,We are eternal.

THE WATER WITCH

See! the milk-white doe is wounded.He will follow as it boundsThrough the woods. His horn has sounded,Echoing, for his men and hounds.But no answering bugle blew.He has lost his retinueFor the shapely deer that boundedPast him when his bow he drew.Not one hound or huntsman follows.Through the underbrush and mossGoes the slot; and in the hollowsOf the hills, that he must cross,He has lost it. He must fareOver rocks where she-wolves lair;Wood-pools where the wild-boar wallows:So he leaves his hunter there.Through his mind then flashed an oldenLegend told him by the monks:—Of a girl, whose hair is golden,Haunting fountains and the trunksOf the woodlands; who, they say,Is a white doe all the day,But when woods are night-enfoldenTurns into an evil fay.Then the story once his teacherTold him: of a mountain lakeDemons dwell in; vague of feature,Human-like; but each a snake,She is queen of.—Did he hearLaughter at his startled ear?Or a bird?—And now, what creatureIs it,—or the wind,—stirs near?Fever of the hunt! This water,Falling here, will cool his head.Through the forest, dyed in slaughter,Slants the sunset; ruby-redAre the drops that slip betweenHollowed hands, while on the green,—Like the couch of some wild daughterOf the forest,—he doth lean.But the runnel, bubbling, dripping,Seems to bid him to be gone;As with crystal words and trippingSteps of sparkle luring on.Now a spirit in the rocksCalls him; now a face that mocks,From behind some boulder slipping,Laughs at him through lilied locks.And he follows through the flowers,Blue and gold, that blossom there;Thridding twilight-haunted bowersWhere each ripple seems the bareBeauty of white limbs that gleamRosy through the running stream;Or bright-shaken hair, that showersStarlight in the sunset’s beam.Till, far in the forest, sleepingLike a luminous darkness, layA deep water, wherein, leaping,Fell the Fountain of the Fay,With a singing, sighing sound,As of spirit things around,Musically laughing, weepingIn the air and underground.Not a ripple o’er it merried:Like the round moon in a cloud,In its rocks the lake lay buried:And strange creatures seemed to crowdIts dark depths: dim limbs and eyesTo the surface seemed to riseSpawn-like; or, all formless, ferriedThrough the water shadow-wise.Foliage things with woman faces,Demon-dreadful, pale and wildAs the forms the lightning tracesOn the clouds the storm has piledIn the darkness.—On the strand—What is that which now doth stand?—’Tis a woman: and she placesOn his arm a spray-white hand.Ah! two mystic worlds of sorrowWere her eyes; her hair, a placeWhence the moon its gold might borrow;And a dream of ice her face:Round her hair and throat in rimsPearls of foam hung; and through whimsOf her robe, as breaks the morrow,Gleamed the rose-light of her limbs.Who could help but gaze with gladnessOn such beauty? though within,Deep within the beryl sadnessOf those eyes, the serpent sinSeemed to coil.—She placed her cheekChilly upon his, and weakWith love-longing and its madnessGrew he. Then he heard her speak:—“Dost thou love me?”—“If surrenderOf the soul means love, I love.”“Dost not fear me?”—“Fear?—more slenderArt thou than a wildwood dove.Yet I fear—I fear to loseThee, thy love.”—“And thou dost chooseAye to be my heart’s defender?”—“Take me. I am thine to use.”“Follow then.—Ah, love, no lowlyHome I give thee.”—With fixed eyesTo the water’s edge she slowlyDrew him.... Nor did he surmiseWho this creature was, untilO’er his face the foam closed chill,Whispering, and the lake unholyRippled, rippled and was still.

THE SUCCUBA

I have dreams where I believeThat a queen of some dim palace,One, whose name is Genevieve,Weighs me with her love or malice:She is dead and yet my bride:And she glimmers at my sideOffering a crystal chaliceFilled with fire, diamond-dyed.I have dreams. Ah, would that IMight forget them!—I rememberHow her gaze, all icilyDraws me, like a glowing ember,Up her castle-stair’s pale-pavedAlabaster, from the wavedOcean, grayer than November,Where I linger, soul-enslaved.Walls of shadow and of nightLit with casements full of fire,Somber red or piercing white:As the wind breathes lower, higher,Round the towers spirit-thingsWhisper, and the haunted stringsMoan of each huge, plangent lyreSet upon its four chief wings.In its corridors at trystFlame-eyed phantoms meet. Its sparryHalls are misty amethyst:Battlemented ’neath the starrySkies it looms; the strange unknownSkies where, green as glow-worms, sown,Gloom the stars; the moon hangs barryBeryl, low and large and lone....Can it be a witch is she?Or a vampire? she, far whiterThan the spirits of the sea!—She whose eyes are cold, yet brighterThan her throat’s pale jewels. Lo!Flame she is though seeming snow:And her love lies tighter, tighterOn my heart than utter woe.Though I dream, it seems I live;And my heart is sick with sorrowOf the love that it must giveTo her; passion, it must borrowOf herself, unhallowed, vain;Then return it her again:Thus she holds me; and to-morrowStill will hold with sweetest pain.In her garden’s moon-white spaceStrangest flowers bloom: huge lilies,Each one with a human face;Knots of spirit-amaryllis;Cactus-bulks with pulpy bloomsGnome-like in the silver glooms;And dim deeps of daffadillies,Fay-like, brimming faint perfumes.But to me their fragrance seemsPoison; and their lambent lustre,Spun of twilight and of dreams,Poison; and each pearly clusterHides a serpent’s fang. And I,Looking from an oriel, sigh;For my soul is fain to musterHeart to breathe of them and die.Then I feel big eyes, as brightAs the sea-stars. Gray with glitter,She behind me, moony white,Smiles, ’mid hangings wherein flitterLoves and deeds of AmadisDarkly worked. And then her kissOn my mouth falls; sweet and bitterWith a bliss that is not bliss.And I kiss her eyes and hair;Smooth her tresses till their goldenGlimmer sparkles. EverywhereShapes of strange aromas, holdenOf the walls, around us troop;And in golden loop on loop,—Of the lull’d eyes vague beholden,—Forms of music o’er us stoop.Yet I see beneath it all,All this sorcery, a devil,Beautiful, and white, and tall,Broods with shadowy eyes of evil:She, who must resume with mornHer true shape: a cactus-thorn,Monstrous, on some lonely levelOf that demon-world forlorn.I have dreams where I believeThat a queen of some dim palace,One, whose name is Genevieve,Weighs me with her love or malice:And all night I am her slaveThere beside the demon wave,Where I drain the loathsome chaliceOf her love, that is my grave.