Full of the stately repose and the lordly delight of the dead, Where the fortunate islands are lit with the light of ineffable faces, And the sound of a sea without wind is about them, and sunset is red, Come back to redeem and release me from love that recalls and represses, That cleaves to my flesh as a flame, till the serpent has eaten his fill; From the bitter delights of the dark, and the feverish, the furtive caresses That murder the youth in a man or ever his heart have its will. Thy lips cannot laugh and thine eyes cannot weep; thou art pale as a rose is, Paler and sweeter than leaves that cover the blush of the bud; And the heart of the flower is compassion, and pity the core it encloses, Pity, not love, that is born of the breath and decays with the blood. As the cross that a wild nun clasps till the edge of it bruises her bosom, So love wounds as we grasp it, and blackens and burns as a flame; I have loved overmuch in my life; when the live bud bursts with the blossom, Bitter as ashes or tears is the fruit, and the wine thereof shame. As a heart that its anguish divides is the green bud cloven asunder; As the blood of a man self-slain is the flush of the leaves that allure; And the perfume as poison and wine to the brain, a delight and a wonder; And the thorns are too sharp for a boy, too slight for a man, to endure. Too soon did I love it, and lost love's rose; and I cared not for glory's: Only the blossoms of sleep and of pleasure were mixed in my hair. Was it myrtle or poppy thy garland was woven with, O my Dolores? Was it pallor of slumber, or blush as of blood, that I found in thee fair? For desire is a respite from love, and the flesh not the heart is her fuel; She was sweet to me once, who am fled and escaped from the rage of her reign; Who behold as of old time at hand as I turn, with her mouth growing cruel, And flushed as with wine with the blood of her lovers, Our Lady of Pain. Low down where the thicket is thicker with thorns than with leaves in the summer, In the brake is a gleaming of eyes and a hissing of tongues that I knew; And the lithe long throats of her snakes reach round her, their mouths overcome her, And her lips grow cool with their foam, made moist as a desert with dew. With the thirst and the hunger of lust though her beautiful lips be so bitter, With the cold foul foam of the snakes they soften and redden and smile; And her fierce mouth sweetens, her eyes wax wide and her eyelashes glitter, And she laughs with a savour of blood in her face, and a savour of guile. She laughs, and her hands reach hither, her hair blows hither and hisses,