There curl❜d a purple mist around them;

soon,

It seem'd as when around the pale new

moon

And air, and pains, and care, and suffering; Good-bye to all but love! Then doth he spring

Towards her, and awakes – and, strange, o'erhead,

Of those same fragrant exhalations bred,
Beheld awake his very dream: the gods
Stood smiling; merry Hebe laughs and
nods;

And Phoebe bends towards him crescented.
O state perplexing! On the pinion bed,
Too well awake, he feels the panting side 440
Of his delicious lady. He who died
For soaring too audacious in the sun,
When that same treacherous wax began to

Awhile forgetful of all beauty save

450

Ah, shouldst thou die from my hearttreachery!

469 Yet did she merely weep her gentle soul Hath no revenge in it: as it is whole In tenderness, would I were whole in love! Can I prize thee, fair maid, all price above, Even when I feel as true as innocence ?

I do, I do. What is this soul then? Whence

Came it? It does not seem my own, and I Have no self-passion or identity.

Some fearful end must be: where, where is it?

And Vesper, risen star, began to throe
In the dusk heavens silvery, when they
Thus sprang direct towards the Galaxy.
Nor did speed hinder converse soft and
strange

Eternal oaths and vows they interchange,
In such wise, in such temper, so aloof

490

So witless of their doom, that verily 'Tis well nigh past man's search their hearts

to see;

Whether they wept, or laugh'd, or grieved or toy'd

Most like with joy gone mad, with sorrow cloy'd.

Full facing their swift flight, from ebon

streak,

The moon put forth a little diamond peak,

520 home

At random flies; they are the proper
Of every ill: the man is yet to come
Who hath not journey'd in this native hell.
But few have ever felt how calm and well
Sleep may be had in that deep den of all.
There anguish does not sting, nor pleasure
pall;

Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate,
Yet all is still within and desolate.
Beset with painful gusts, within ye hear 529
No sound so loud as when on curtain'd bier
The death-watch tick is stifled. Enter none
Who strive therefore: on the sudden it is

won.

Just when the sufferer begins to burn, Then it is free to him; and from an urn,

Still fed by melting ice, he takes a draught

Young Semele such richness never quaff'd In her maternal longing. Happy gloom.! Dark Paradise! where pale becomes the bloom

Of health by due; where silence dreariest Is most articulate; where hopes infest; 540 Where those eyes are the brightest far that keep

Their lids shut longest in a dreamless sleep. O happy spirit-home! O wondrous soul! Pregnant with such a den to save the whole In thine own depth. Hail, gentle Carian! For, never since thy griefs and woes began, Hast thou felt so content: a grievous feud Hath led thee to this Cave of Quietude. Aye, his lull'd soul was there, although upborne

With dangerous speed: and so he did not