Her hair was, oh, so dense a
Of darkness, midnight envied her;
And stars grew dimmer in the
To see the glory of her eyes;
And all the summer rain of
That showered from the moon at
Fell o'er her features as the
Of twilight o'er a lily-bloom.
The crimson fruitage of her
Was ripe and lush with sweeter
Than burgundy or
Or vintage that the burgher
In some old garden on the Rhine:
And I to taste of it could
Believe my heart a
Of molten love—and I could
The drunken soul within me
And rock and stagger till it fell.
And do you wonder that I
Before her splendor as a
Of storm the golden-sandaled
Had set his conquering foot upon?
And did she will it,
I could
In writhing rapture down and dieA death so full of precious painI'd waken up to die again.
