He stood where all the rare voluptuous west, Like some mad Mænad, wine-stained to the breast, Laughed with delirious lips of ruby must, Wherein, it seemed, the fierceness of all lust Burnt like a feverish wine, exultant whirled High in a golden goblet, gem-impearled. And all the west, and all the amorous west, Caressed his beauty, dreamed upon his breast; And there he bloomed, a thing of rose and snows, A passion-flower of men of snowy rose, Beneath the casement of her old red tower, Whereat the lady sat, as fair a flower As ever bloomed in Provence; and the lace Mist-like about her hair, half-hid her face And the emotions that his singing raised, So that he knew not if she blamed or praised. And where the white rose, climbing over and over Up to her wide-flung lattice, like a lover, And stalks of lavender and fleurs-de-lis Held honey-cups up for the violent bee, Within her garden by the ivied wall, Where many a fountain, falling musical, Flamed rubies in the eve against it flung, Like some wild nightingale the minstrel sung:-- "The passion, oh, of gently smoothing through Long locks of brown, soft hands as lovers do! Thy dark, deep locks, rich-jeweled as the dusk Is scintillant with stars! Oh, frenzy rare Of clasping slender fingers round thy hair!-- What balm, what breath of winds from summer seas! What silken softness and what sorceries Doth it contain!--Ah God! ah God! to lie Wrapped strand on strand deep in thy hair and die! Ay me, oh, ay! "Oh, happy madness and, oh, rapturous pain, With white hands smoothing back thy locks, to drain Into thine eyes my soul!--Oh, perilous eyes! As agates polished; where the thoughts that rise, Within thy heart are imaged; thoughts that pass As magic pictures in a witch's glass.-- What siren sweetness, wailed to lyres of gold, What naked beauty that the Greeks of old, God-bosomed, through the bursting foam did see, Could sway my soul with half their mastery! Ay, ay, ay me! "Far o'er the sea, of old time, once a witch, The fair Ææan, Circe, dwelt; so rich In marvellous magic, she was like a god, And made or unmade mortals with a nod: Turned all her lovers into bird or brute.-- More cruel thou, who mak'st my heart a lute, That lies before thee, hushed and sadly mute! Who let'st it lie, yet from its soul might draw More magic music than Acrasia, Or Circe knew, that filled them with its bliss, Didst thou but take me to thine arms and kiss! Ay, ay, I wis!"