Curious and wistful through your soul I go.
With silver-tinkling feet I penetrate
Sealed chambers, and a puissant incense throw
Upon the smouldering braziers, love and hate:
And chaunt the grievèd verses of a dirge
For dying gods, remembering flutes and shawms:
With perverse moods I trouble you, and urge
The sense to beauty. Give me some sweet alms,
Some reverie, some pang of a damasked sword,
Some poignant moment yet unparalleled
In my dream-broidered chronicles, some chord
Of mystery Love's music never knelled
Before;—but nought of the rough alchemy
That disillusions all felicity.