Once laden with a leaden misery,
Permuted, drop by drop, this love doth flow
As helpless, heedless whither it may go,
Yet as it goeth, gath'reth company.
Companions mixeth with my alchemy;
From new concoctions new deductions grow:
A higher magick riseth on the low;
The rose is chang'd into the white lily.
Blood-red desire, desire I now no more...
In this, my lack of thee is made complete...
Yet stop thee not to think I love thee less.
Once found thou precious metal in this ore;
Thou needest not th'endearing words repeat,
Nor take for lust what's giv'n as tenderness.
The Habit
It is my habit now, to dress in black,
An outward sign of inward fall from grace.
My prima donna soul this subtle trace
I'll grant for grief, forgo a wilder track,
And claim a quiet joy in what I lack:
Declin'd intoxication and embrace,
The sickly look on ev'ry lover's face,
As if the mind with lip and thigh went slack.
Austerity doth comfort yield, and peace,
Protecteth me from the deceiving touch
That 'gendereth the strivings of desire
Toward loftier regard that might release...
But doth not...healed cripple from her crutch:
"Touch me not; pall ye not on this dead fire."