I am pure, because of great illuminations
Of dreamy doctrine caught from poets of old,
Because of delicate imaginations,
Because I am proud, or subtle, or merely cold.
Natheless my soul's bright passions interchange
As the red flames in opal drowse and speak:
In beautiful twilight paths the elusive strange
Phantoms of personality I seek.
If better than the last embraces I
Love the lit riddles of the eyes, the faint
Appeal of merely courteous fingers,—why,
Though 'tis a quest of souls, and I acquaint
My heart with spiritual vanities,—
Is there indeed no bridge twixt me and these?