Chapter XIX: The Seeker

Curious and wistful through your soul I go. With silver-tinkling feet I penetrate Sealed chambers, and a puissant incense throw Upon the smouldering braziers, love and hate: And chaunt the grievèd verses of a dirge For dying gods, remembering flutes and shawms: With perverse moods I trouble you, and urge The sense to beauty. Give me some sweet alms, Some reverie, some pang of a damasked sword, Some poignant moment yet unparalleled In my dream-broidered chronicles, some chord Of mystery Love's music never knelled Before;--but nought of the rough alchemy That disillusions all felicity.