XXI. 
In every ecstasy exalt my heart ; 
Let every trance make loose and light the wings 
My soul must shake, ere her pure fabric springs 
Clothed in the secret dream-delights of Art 
Transcendent into air, the tomb of Things ; 
Let every kiss 
Melt on my lips to flame, fling back the gates of Dis ! 
 
XXII. 
Give me a master !  Not some learned priest 
Who by long toil and anguish has devised 
A train of mysteries, but some despised 
Young king of men, whose spirit is released 
From all the weariness, whose lips are prized 
By men not much— 
Ah ! let them only once grow warm, my lips to touch. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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