Chapter XXV: The Anaesthetic

Like a white moth caught heavily, heavily, In the honeyed heart of some white drowsy flower, I lay behind the leaves of apathy, Where not the reddest pang has any power. Then, like one drowning, I rose and lapsed again On dim sweet tides of the great anodyne. Why must they hale me back to drink the pain That seethes in consciousness, an evil wine? I love the closing trances, howsoever Their seals be broken: they are wise and kind. If death can give such fumes of poppy, never Shall I revile him. Oh! uncertain mind! Hast thou an equal pleasure in the proud Flame-builded pillar, and the pillar of cloud?