Tannhäuser

Still sweeter when the Bowman His silky shaft of frost Lets loose on earth, that no man May linger nor be lost. The barren woods, deserted, Lose echo of our siofhs— Love—dies ?— Love lives — in granite skirted, And under oaken skies. But best is grim December, The Goatish God his power ; The Satyr blows the ember, And pain is passion's flower ; When blood drips over kisses, And madness sobs through wine :— Ah, mine !— The snake starts up and hisses And strikes and— I am thine ! Venus. Those are thy true joys ? Cruelty for love } Tannhauser. And death in kissing. How I have despised. Riding through meadows of the rushing Rhine, 37