XIX.

He spoke abrupt across my dream: “Dear Garden,

A stranger to your magic peace, I stand

Beyond your walls, lost in a fevered land

Of stones and fire. Would that the gods would harden

My soul against its torment, or would blind

Those yearning glimpses of a life at rest

In perfect beauty — glimpses at the best

Through unpassed bars. And here, without, the wind

Of scattering passion blows: and women pass

Glitter-eyed down putrid alleys where the glass

Of some grimed window suddenly parades —

Ah, sickening heart-beat of desire!— the grace

Of bare and milk-warm flesh: the vision fades,

And at the pane shows a blind tortured face.”