Ah! Since from subtle silk of agony
Our veils of lamentable flesh are spun,
Since Time in spoiling violates, and we
In that strait Pass of Pangs may be undone,
Since the mere natural flower and withering
Of these our bodies terribly distil
Strange poisons, since an alien Lust may fling
On any autumn day some torch to fill
Our pale Pavilion of dreaming lavenders
With frenzy, till it is a Tower of Flame
Wherein the soul shrieks burning, since the myrrhs
And music of our beauty are mixed with shame
Inextricable,—some drug of poppies give
This bitter ecstasy whereby we live!