That flows and droops, a dark resplendent pall

Under the floating wreaths funereal.

Under the heavy midnight of thine hair

An altar flames with spices of the south

Burning my flesh and spirit in the flame;

Till, looking tow'rds the land from whence I came

I find no comfort there,

And all the darkness to my thirsty mouth

Is fire, but always and in every place

Blossoms the secret wonder of thy face.

[Pg 15]

*    *    *    *

The walls, the very walls are woven of dreams,

All undefined by blasphemies of art!

Here, pure from finite hues the very night

Conceives the mystic harmonies of light,

Delicious glooms and gleams;

And sorrow falls in rose-leaves on the heart,

And pain that yearns upon the passing hour

Is but a perfume haunting a dead flower.

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