III

All, all is sweet in that commingled draught

Mysterious, that life pours for lovers’ thirst,

And I would meet your passion as the first

Wild woodland woman met her captor's craft,

Or as the Greek whose fearless beauty laughed

And doffed her raiment by the Attic flood;

But in the streams of my belated blood

Flow all the warring potions love has quaffed.

How can I be to you the nymph who danced

Smooth by Ilissus as the plane-tree's bole,

Or how the Nereid whose drenched lashes glanced

Like sea-flowers through the summer sea's long roll —

I that have also been the nun entranced

Who night-long held her Bridegroom in her soul?