Lassitude

Ah! to be able to sing, To sorrow in melody; To string with silver Sorrow's dark harp!

Or, mount every thorn Crowning life's brow With lustrous stars-- Those tears of the sky.

Rolling down its face When night's hand puts Darkness's crown on its head As twilight dies.

None of these, for my soul; Only to weep is given to me, To nourish my heart's crop For the scythe of barrenness to reap.

7

Ah! pale cool lips that burn, Body that yields, though unyielding, Oh, moon with the heat of the sun! Flashing out a million lights To cleave into nothing the endless firmament of my being. Take all; my soul's mistress! heart's queen, The flaming fancies of my dream-tortured night The intoxicating fruits of my day dream, The fiery lotus of my senses' delight That rises from the abyss of my life. The abysmal heaven of love and living Now bruised, burnt, torn and thrown To the winds of thy ravishing rejoicing Whose inarticulate words of delight and moan Make the ever-yielding music of my soul.

8