To Lilith
Behind such varioius vesture of strange dreams
Abides my soul, I know not its true form;
Nor have I faith it is the thing it seems--
Now hushed in calm, now crying of the storm.
Forevermore the dreams are as a veil
Of strangely-wrought enchantment to my ken,
Wherethrough my soul's eyes make my being quail,
Or bid me wanton with my joys again.
I have no knowledge of the thing it is,
Whether it be of fiend or angel born,
This much I know, beloved, only this:
Beneath thy touch, of all its power shorn,
It yields glad captive to the joy that lies
Sweet on thy ruining lips and laughing eyes.
Behind such varioius vesture of strange dreams
Abides my soul, I know not its true form;
Nor have I faith it is the thing it seems--
Now hushed in calm, now crying of the storm.
Forevermore the dreams are as a veil
Of strangely-wrought enchantment to my ken,
Wherethrough my soul's eyes make my being quail,
Or bid me wanton with my joys again.
I have no knowledge of the thing it is,
Whether it be of fiend or angel born,
This much I know, beloved, only this:
Beneath thy touch, of all its power shorn,
It yields glad captive to the joy that lies
Sweet on thy ruining lips and laughing eyes.