Straight from the sunset, across white waves whence rose

as a daughter

Venus thy mother, in years when the world was a

water at rest.

Out of the distance of dreams, as a dream that abides after slumber,

Strayed from the fugitive flock of the night, when the moon overhead

Wanes in the wan waste heights of the heaven, and stars without number

Die without sound, and are spent like lamps that are

burnt by the dead,

Comes back to me, stays by me, lulls me with touch of forgotten caresses,

One warm dream clad about with a fire as of life that

endures;

The delight of thy face, and the sound of thy feet, and the wind of thy tresses,

And all of a man that regrets, and all of a maid that

allures.

But thy bosom is warm for my face and profound as a manifold flower,

Thy silence as music, thy voice as an odour that fades

in a flame;

Not a dream, not a dream is the kiss of thy mouth, and the bountiful hour

That makes me forget what was sin, and would make

me forget were it shame.

Thine eyes that are quiet, thine hands that are tender, thy lips that are loving,

Comfort and cool me as dew in the dawn of a moon

like a dream;

And my heart yearns baffled and blind, moved vainly toward thee, and moving

As the refluent seaweed moves in the languid exube

rant stream,

Fair as a rose is on earth, as a rose under water in prison, That stretches and swings to the slow passionate pulse of the sea,

Closed

up
from the air and the sun, but alive, as a ghost
rearisen,

Pale as the love that revives as a ghost rearisen in me. From the bountiful infinite west, from the happy memo

rial places

Full of the stately repose and the lordly delight of the

dead,

Where the fortunate islands are lit with the light of ineffable faces,

And the sound of a sea without wind is about them,

and sunset is red,

Come back to redeem and release me from love that re

calls and represses,

That cleaves to my flesh as a flame, till the serpent has

eaten his fill;

From the bitter delights of the dark, and the feverish, the furtive caresses

That murder the youth in a man or ever his heart

have its will.

Thy lips cannot laugh and thine eyes cannot weep; thou art pale as a rose is,

Paler and sweeter than leaves that cover the blush of

the bud;

And the heart of the flower is compassion, and pity the core it encloses,

Pity, not love, that is born of the breath and decays with the blood.

As the cross that a wild nun clasps till the edge of it bruises her bosom,

So love wounds as we grasp it, and blackens and burns as a flame;

I have loved overmuch in my life; when the live bud bursts with the blossom,

Bitter as ashes or tears is the fruit, and the wine thereof shame.

As a heart that its anguish divides is the green bud cloven asunder;

As the blood of a man self-slain is the flush of the

leaves that allure;

And the perfume as poison and wine to the brain, a delight and a wonder;

And the thorns are too sharp for a boy, too slight for

a man, to endure.

Too soon did I love it, and lost love's rose; and I cared not for glory's;

Only the blossoms of sleep and of pleasure were mixed

in my hair.

Was it myrtle or poppy thy garland was woven with, O my Dolores?

Was it pallor of slumber, or blush as of blood, that I found in thee fair?

For desire is a respite from love, and the flesh not the heart is her fuel;

She was sweet to me once, who am fled and escaped

from the rage of her reign;

Who behold as of old time at hand as I turn, with her mouth growing cruel,

And flushed as with wine with the blood of her lovers,

Our Lady of Pain.

Low down where the thicket is thicker with thorns than

with leaves in the summer,

In the brake is a gleaming of eyes and a hissing of tongues that I knew;

And the lithe long throats of her snakes reach round her, their mouths overcome her,

And her lips grow cool with their foam, made moist

as a desert with dew.

With the thirst and the hunger of lust though her beautiful lips be so bitter,

With the cold foul foam of the snakes they soften and redden and smile;

And her fierce mouth sweetens, her eyes wax wide and her eyelashes glitter,

And she laughs with a savour of blood in her face,

and a savour of guile.

She laughs, and her hands reach hither, her hair blows hither and hisses,

As a low-lit flame in a wind, back-blown till it

shudder and leap;

Let her lips not again lay hold on my soul, nor her poisonous kisses,

To consume it alive and divide from thy bosom, Our

Lady of Sleep.

Ah daughter of sunset and slumber, if now it return into prison,

Who shall redeem it anew? but we, if thou wilt, let

us fly;

Let us take to us, now that the white skies thrill with

a moon unarisen,

Swift horses of fear or of love, take flight and depart

and not die.

They are swifter than dreams, they are stronger than death; there is none that hath ridden,

None that shall ride in the dim strange ways of his life as we ride;

By the meadows of memory, the highlands of hope, and the shore that is hidden,

Where life breaks loud and unseen, a sonorous in

visible tide;

By the sands where sorrow has trodden, the salt pools bitter and sterile,