Into the east, where morn
  Sleeps in a shadowy close,
Shut with a gate of horn,
  ’Round which the dreams she knows
Flutter with rose and thorn.

Blow from the west, oh, blow,
  Clouds that the tempest steers! 
And with your rain and snow
  Bear of my heart the tears,
And of my soul the woe.

Into the east then pass,
  Clouds that the night winds sweep! 
And on her grave’s sear grass,
  There where she lies asleep. 
There let them fall, alas!

The Glory and the Dream

There in the past I see her as of old,
Blue-eyed and hazel-haired, within a room
Dim with a twilight of tenebrious gold;
Her white face sensuous as a delicate bloom
Night opens in the tropics.  Fold on fold
Pale laces drape her; and a frail perfume,
As of a moonlit primrose brimmed with rain,
Breathes from her presence, drowsing heart and brain.

Her head is bent; some red carnations glow
Deep in her heavy hair; her large eyes gleam;—­
Bright sister stars of those twin worlds of snow,
Her breasts, through which the veined violets stream;—­
I hold her hand; her smile comes sweetly slow
As thoughts of love that haunt a poet’s dream;
And at her feet once more I sit and hear
Wild words of passion—­dead this many a year.

Snow and Fire

Deep-hearted roses of the purple dusk
And lilies of the morn;
And cactus, holding up a slender tusk
Of fragrance on a thorn;
All heavy flowers, sultry with their musk,
Her presence puts to scorn.

For she is like the pale, pale snowdrop there,
Scentless and chaste of heart;
The moonflower, making spiritual the air,
Like some pure work of art;
Divine and holy, exquisitely fair,
And virtue’s counterpart.

Yet when her eyes gaze into mine, and when
Her lips to mine are pressed,—­
Why are my veins all fire then? and then
Why should her soul suggest
Voluptuous perfumes, maddening unto men,
And prurient with unrest?

Restraint

Dear heart and love! what happiness to sit
And watch the firelight’s varying shade and shine
On thy young face; and through those eyes of thine—­
As through glad windows—­mark fair fancies flit
In sumptuous chambers of thy soul’s chaste wit
Like graceful women:  then to take in mine
Thy hand, whose pressure brims my heart’s divine
Hushed rapture as with music exquisite! 
When I remember how thy look and touch
Sway, like the moon, my blood with ecstasy,
I dare not think to what fierce heaven might lead
Thy soft embrace; or in thy kiss how much
Sweet hell,—­beyond all help of me,—­might be,
Where I were lost, where I were lost indeed!

Why Should I Pine?

Why should I pine? when there in Spain
Are eyes to woo, and not in vain;
Dark eyes, and dreamily divine: 
And lips, as red as sunlit wine;