Elsewhere, far away ... too late, perhaps never more, For I know not whither you fly, nor you, where I go, O soul that I would have loved, and _that_ you know! Illusionary Love When I behold thee wander by, my languorous love, To songs of viols which throughout the dome resound, Harmonious and stately as thy footsteps move, Bestowing forth the languor of thy glance profound. When I regard thee, glowing in the gaslight rays, Thy pallid brow embellished by a charm obscure, Here where the evening torches light the twilight haze, Thine eyes attracting me like those of a portraiture, I say--How beautiful she is! how strangely rich! A mighty memory, royal and commanding tower, A garland: and her heart, bruised like a ruddy peach, Is ripe--like her body for Love's sapient power. Art thou, that spicy Autumn-fruit with taste supreme? Art thou a funeral vase inviting tears of grief? Aroma--causing one of Eastern wastes to dream; A downy cushion, bunch of flowers or golden sheaf? I know that there are eyes, most melancholy ones, Wherein no precious secret deeply hidden lies, Resplendent shrines, devoid of relics, sacred stones, More empty, more profound than ye yourselves, O skies? Yea, does thy semblance, not alone for me suffice, To kindle senses which the cruel truth abhor? All one to me! thy folly or thy heart of ice, Decoy or mask, all hail! thy beauty I adore! Mists and Rains O last of Autumn and Winter--steeped in haze, O sleepy seasons! you I love and praise, Because around my heart and brain you twine A misty winding-sheet and a nebulous shrine. On that great plain, where frigid blasts abound, Where through the nights, so long, the vane whirls round, My soul, more free than in the springtime soft, Will stretch her raven wings and soar aloft, Unto an heart with gloomy things replete, On which remain the frosts of former Times, O pallid seasons, mistress of our climes As your pale shadows--nothing is so sweet, Unless it be, on a moonless night a-twain, On some chance couch to soothe to sleep our Pain. The Wine of Lovers To-day the Distance is superb, Without bridle, spur or curb, Let us mount on the back of wine For Regions fairy and divine! Let's, like two angels tortured by Some dark, delirious phantasy, Pursue the distant mirage drawn O'er the blue crystal of the dawn! And gently balanced on the wing Of some obliging whirlwind, we --In equal rapture revelling-- My sister, side by side will flee, Without repose, nor truce, where gleams The golden Paradise of my dreams! Condemned Women Like thoughtful cattle on the yellow sands reclined, They turn their eyes towards the horizon of the sea, Their feet towards each other stretched, their hands entwined, They tell of gentle yearning, frigid misery.