they ask me—thy crystalline eyes, so acute,

"odd lover—why am i to thee so dear?"

—be sweet and keep silent, my heart, which is sear,

for all save the rude and untutored brute,

is loth its infernal depths to reveal,

and its dissolute motto engraven with fire,

oh charmer! whose arms endless slumber inspire!

i abominate passion and wit makes me ill.

so let us love gently. within his retreat,

foreboding, love seeks for his arrows a prey,

i know all the arms of his battle array.

delirium and loathing—o pale marguerite!

like me, art thou not an autumnal ray,

alas my so white, my so cold marguerite!

sadness of the moon-goddess

to-night the moon dreams with increased weariness,

like a beauty stretched forth on a downy heap

of rugs, while her languorous fingers caress

the contour of her breasts, before falling to sleep.

on the satin back of the avalanche soft,

she falls into lingering swoons, as she dies,

while she lifteth her eyes to white visions aloft,

which like efflorescence float up to the skies.

when at times, in her languor, down on to this sphere,

she slyly lets trickle a furtive tear,

a poet, desiring slumber to shun,

takes up this pale tear in the palm of his hand

(the colours of which like an opal blend),

and buries it far from the eyes of the sun.