—     12     — 
 
O !  but shall hope arise in happiness ? 
That may not be. 
My love is like a golden grape ; the veins 
Peep through the ecstasy 
Of the essence of ivory and silk, 
Pearl, moonlight, mother-milk 
That is her skin ; 
Its swift caress 
Flits like an angel’s kiss in a dream ;  remains 
The healing virtue ;  from all sin, 
All ill, one touch sets free. 
My love is like a star  —  oh fool !  oh fool ! 
Is not thy back yet tender from the rod ? 
Is there no learning in the poet’s school ? 
Wilt thou achieve what were too hard for God ? 
I call Him to the battle ;  ask of me 
When the hinds calve ?  What of eternity 
When he built chaos ?  Shall Leviathan 
Be drawn out with a hook ?  Enough ;  I see 
This I can answer  —  or Ernst Haeckel can ! 
Now, God Almighty, rede this mystery ! 
What of the love that is the heart of man ? 
Take stars and airs, and write it down ! 
Fill all the interstices of space 
With myriad verse  —  own Thy disgrace ! 
Diminish Thy renown ! 
Approve my riddle !  This Thou canst not do.