I. The Assumption

Why would the open sky not be denied Possession of me, when I sat to-day Rock-couched, and round my feet the soft slave lay, My singing Sea, dark-bosom’d, dusky-eyed? She breathed low mystery of song, she sighed, And stirred herself, and set lithe limbs to play In blandishing serpent-wreaths, and would betray An anklet gleaming, or a swaying side. Why could she not detain me? Why must I Devote myself to the dread Heaven, adore The spacious pureness, the large ardour? why Sprang forth my heart as though all wanderings Had end? To what last bliss did I upsoar Beating on indefatigable wings?