The trees were thick with many a fruit, The grass with many a flower: My soul was dead, my tongue was mute, In that accursëd hour. And, in my dream, with silvery voice, She said, or seemed to say, "Youth is the season to rejoice--" I could not choose but stay: I could not say her nay. She plucked a branch above her head, With rarest fruitage laden: "Drink of the juice, Sir Knight," she said: "'Tis good for knight and maiden." Oh, blind mine eye that would not trace-- Oh, deaf mine ear that would not heed-- The mocking smile upon her face, The mocking voice of greed! I drank the juice; and straightway felt A fire within my brain: My soul within me seemed to melt In sweet delirious pain. "Sweet is the stolen draught," she said: "Hath sweetness stint or measure? Pleasant the secret hoard of bread: What bars us from our pleasure?" "Yea, take we pleasure while we may," I heard myself replying. In the red sunset, far away, My happier life was dying: My heart was sad, my voice was gay. And unawares, I knew not how, I kissed her dainty finger-tips, I kissed her on the lily brow, I kissed her on the false, false lips-- That burning kiss, I feel it now! "True love gives true love of the best: Then take," I cried, "my heart to thee!" The very heart from out my breast I plucked, I gave it willingly: Her very heart she gave to me-- Then died the glory from the west. In the gray light I saw her face, And it was withered, old, and gray; The flowers were fading in their place, Were fading with the fading day. Forth from her, like a hunted deer, Through all that ghastly night I fled, And still behind me seemed to hear Her fierce unflagging tread; And scarce drew breath for fear. Yet marked I well how strangely seemed The heart within my breast to sleep: Silent it lay, or so I dreamed, With never a throb or leap. For hers was now my heart, she said, The heart that once had been mine own: And in my breast I bore instead A cold, cold heart of stone. So grew the morning overhead. The sun shot downward through the trees His old familiar flame: All ancient sounds upon the breeze From copse and meadow came-- But I was not the same. They call me mad: I smile, I weep, Uncaring how or why: Yea, when one's heart is laid asleep, What better than to die? So that the grave be dark and deep. To die! To die? And yet, methinks, I drink of life, to-day, Deep as the thirsty traveler drinks Of fountain by the way: My voice is sad, my heart is gay. When yestereve was on the wane, I heard a clear voice singing So sweetly that, like summer-rain, My happy tears came springing: My human heart returned again.