THE POET TELLS OF HIS LOVE

How shall I sing of Her that is My life’s long rapture and despair— Sorrow eternal—Loveliness, To whom each heart-beat is a prayer! Utterly, endlessly, alone Possessing me, yet unpossessed— The dark, the drear belovèd One That takes the tribute of this breast: Dæmon disconsolate, in vain, In vain petitioned and implored— How many a midnight of disdain Darkly and dreadfully adored! Beauty, the virgin, evermore Out of these arms with laughter fled— Vanished—a voice by slope and shore Haunting the world—Illusion dread— Most secret Siren, on whose coast, ’Mid spray of perishing song, are hurled All desolate lovers, all the lost Souls, and half-poets of the world: Through sleepless nights and lonely days In tears and terror served and sought— Light beyond light—the supreme Face That blinds the adoring eyes of thought! How shall I sing of Her? Nay all, All song, all sorrow, all silence of This desperate heart that is Her thrall, Trembles and tries to tell my love!