But me !
I burn with love !
My lips are wan !
Thy face is turned— I flame
!
I melt
!
I fall
!
My heart is chilled and dark
;
My soul's
ethereal spark
Is dulled for sorrow
; my despairs recall
At last Thy name, O gracious Paphian,
Lady of Mercy
to the love of man
!
Come, come,
immortal, of the many thrones !
Sparrows and doves in chariot diamonded
Drawn
through
the midmost air !
O Lady of despair,
Who bound the golden helmet of Thy head
?
Whose
voice rings out the pitiful low tones
:
"Who,
who
hath
wronged
thee?
And
my
power
atones.
" She who now doth flee, shall soon pursue thee
;
" She who spurns thy gifts, with gifts shall woo thee
;
" She who loves not, she shall cleave
unto thee,
" Thou the unwilling
! "
Peer of Gods
is he, equal soul to theirs,
Who lingers in thy passionate embrace
:
Whose
languor-laden
kiss
Cleaves where thy bosom is
A throne of beauty for thy throat and face !
In these dark joys and exquisite despairs,
O Love, let Death lay finger unawares !
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