Who art thou that dwell’st in mine heart’s shrine,

Bright as the sun, fair as the moon, and puissant

As an army with banners, —thou, ever mine?

Who art thou for whom my very lips chant,

Whom my very desire is towards, whom I

Encounter’d ’neath the sapphire welkin of May?

In this vale of eterne blossoms, mortal misery

There is none, but we, soaring, charmed and astray:

Is such not almost our highest bliss, O dearest dear? —

E'en the ebon blade of the deadliest foe

Cannot sever the vines of yearning that for e'er

Twine and bud about thee, whom I will ne’er forego

 Till Life shedders into ashes and icy is Love’s throat,

 With fallen wither’d roses on the Stygian lake afloat.