Ylladmar

Her hair was, oh, so dense a blur

Of darkness, midnight envied her;

And stars grew dimmer in the skies

To see the glory of her eyes;

And all the summer rain of light

That showered from the moon at night

Fell o'er her features as the gloom

Of twilight o'er a lily-bloom.

The crimson fruitage of her lips

Was ripe and lush with sweeter wine

Than burgundy or muscadine

Or vintage that the burgher sips

In some old garden on the Rhine:

And I to taste of it could well

Believe my heart a crucible

Of molten love—and I could feel

The drunken soul within me reel

And rock and stagger till it fell.

And do you wonder that I bowed

Before her splendor as a cloud

Of storm the golden-sandaled sun

Had set his conquering foot upon?

And did she will it, I could lie

In writhing rapture down and die

A death so full of precious pain

I'd waken up to die again.