As delicate gorgeous rains of dusky gold
Heavy white lilies, Love importunate
Besets the soul,—as that wild Splendour told
Pale Danaë her haughty heavenly fate.
Not speared in burning points but spun in strands
My senses: drowsily burning webs are they
That veil me head to foot. While on mine hands
And hair and lids thy kisses die away
Through all my being their strange echoes thrill
And from the body's flowery mysticism
I draw the last white honey. What is thine ill?
What wouldst thou more of that great symbolism?
Beyond this ultimate moment nothing lies
But moonless cold and darkness. Ah! be wise!