Arthur Symons

My little slave
Wouldst thou escape me
Only in the grave, be poison to thee, honey-sweet,
And, my poison having tasted,

There are some hours when I seem so indifferent; all things
To an indifferent greyness, like that grey of the sky;
Always at evening-ends, on grey days; and I know not why,
But life, and art, and love, and death, are the shade of a ...

When your eyes opened to mine eyes,
Without desire, without surprise,
I knew your soul awoke to sec All, dreams foretold, but could not be,
Yet loving love, not loving me

O, if the world I make With these eyes be a dream And Love, that is life, but seem To choose a shade from a shade,
Then let me wake
I have loved, not Love, but a pale,
Mortal woman, and made The whole world for her sake;

If I think of your soul,
I see Your body's beauty; and then I pray to your body again,
And your soul answers me
So to possess you whole,

The feverish room and that white bed,
The tumbled skirts upon a chair,
The novel flung half-open,
Hat, hair-pins, puffs, and paints are spread;

Twitched strings, the clang of metal, beaten drums,
Dull, shrill, continuous, disquieting:
And now the stealthy dancer comes Undulantly with cat-like steps that cling;
Smiling between her painted lids a smile,