SUCCUBUS. 
 
WHO is Love, that he should find me as I strive, 
Pale and weary, dumb and blind, where curses 
thrive, 
Fold my sleep within his wings, and lead my 
dreams 
Through a land of pleasant things, of woods and 
streams, 
Bind my slumber with a chain of pure delight, 
Though the canker of it stain at death of night, 
Fill with passion and distaste and wakened pleasure 
All the moments run to waste that else were 
treasure ? 
Who is Love ?  a fury red with all men’s blood 
On his cruel altars shed, a deadly flood ? 
Or a veiléd vision black with shame and fear, 
Whose most loathliest attack at night is near, 
 
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