Nor turn me back, nor make me hold my tongue.
Thou threatenedst me with judgment and with hell,
Yet thou art mine! I can embrace thee even,
And weave my lily fingers in thy hair,
And stroke thy temples, fondle thee, and hate!
Recall thyself to life and list to me
While here I mock thee, spurn thee, spit on thee.
Why liest thou there? What! wouldst thou plead to me?
Ah! thou art very pale; where is the health
Which blossomed like a garden in thy face
And brought forth manly beauty? Where the flush
Of indignation or of shame whenever
I spoke to thee? Eh? Let me call it back
With acts would shame the satyrs in their dens.
It cometh not! What? Thy proud virtue sleepeth
And all the blushes which have guarded it
Are melted by their own inherent fire
And dribble down to cool in this flat dish.
In spite of thee I play among thy roses,
Restore them thus to abdicated thrones
On pale cheeks, yea, on this majestic brow,
Or call them up with mine all-potent kiss.
Come, let me taste thy virtuous, scornful lips-
Oh! horror! life! Oh! death!
HERE will I rest until my maidens come
To mourn with me. In voiceless solitudes,
Where love and longing to behold create
A presence sensible of the beloved,
I shall, henceforth alone, not be alone.
Yet is this presence to my conscious heart
As circumambient mist to thirsty souls,
The intangible presentment of their wish.
Alas! I never more may look for showers,
Nor dews, nor springs, nor rivulets nor lakes;
But far before me to the vast and dim,
The infinite of space, a desert drear
Stretcheth interminable; scorching sands
Return the glare of a more scorching sun
And sluggish winds, as hot and tainting breath
Of sleeping monsters, burn and blast my cheek.
I'll go to deeper shade and solitude;
For deepest solitude is solitude
Least deep for me, since I am so dissolved
To unsubstantial being by the void
Of beings substantive and sensible
That with the unsubstantial forms of love may hold converse; my reality
Thus disappearing, they are real to me,
And I am still with him who is love to me.
Here will I rest while o'er my head the trees,
Hoary with moss, hold out their trembling hands,
And pray for me, like low-voiced priests at prayer,
While in the dale the self-amusing brook,
In reverence leaving leaps from stone to stone,
Slow, softly and solemnly goeth on sand.
The birds have ceased their earlier morning songs,
And listening with bent heads and folded wings
Say amen and amen from time to time.
Prayer dwelleth in this place; the gods are near.
O God, behold mine utter helplessness,
Have pity on mine utter worthlessness,
Redeem me from mine utter guiltiness,
And give me of thine utter righteousness.
In darkness of a wood
Where by my coming all the air is dead.
The innocent trees aghast all shuddering stand
And would avoid me but relentless roots
Hold them to bear the horror of my sight
And feel the torment of my loathsome presence.
I have accursed myself, and I must wander
Forever and forever seeking light
But never finding it. Or in the wood,
Or in the city's streets or crowded courts,
In an illumined palace or dark cell
I have the terror of great darkness on me.
My crimes give forth most suffocating blackness
As suns give brightness forth. My doom is just.
Even of the tomb the darkness shall be bright.
I am oppressed with sense of grievous guilt,
Nor can I find surcease nor know I where
To turn for help or comfort; here, condemned,
I seek a way to expiate my sin
While conscience, restless, will not let me rest,
Approveth naught, and will not let me choose.
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