Chapter III

Long she abode aloof there in her heaven, Far as the grape-bunch of the Pleiad seven Beyond my madness' utmost leap; but here Mine eyes have feigned of late her rapture near, Moulded of mind-mist that broad day dispels, Here in these shadowy woods and brook-lulled dells.

Have no heaven-habitants e’er felt a void In hearts sublimed with ichor unalloyed? E’er longed to mingle with a mortal fate Intense with pathos of its briefer date? Could she partake, and live, our human stains? Even with the thought there tingles through my veins Sense of unwarned renewal; I, the dead, Receive and house again the ardor fled, As once Alcestis; to the ruddy brim Feel masculine virtue flooding every limb, And life, like Spring returning, brings the key That sets my senses from their winter free, Dancing like naked fauns too glad for shame. Her passion, purified to palest flame, Can it thus kindle? Is her purpose this? I will not argue, lest I lose a bliss That makes me dream Tithonus' fortune mine, (Or what of it was palpably divine Ere came the fruitlessly immortal gift;) I cannot curb my hope’s imperious drift That wings with fire my dull mortality; Though fancy-forged, ’tis all I feel or see.