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,
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