Cease, cease — for such wild lessons madmen learn
Thus to be lost, and thus to sink and die
Perchance were death indeed!— Constantia turn
In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie
Even though the sounds its voice that were
Between thy lips are laid to sleep:
Within thy breath, and on thy hair
Like odour, it is lingering yet
And from thy touch like fire doth leap —
Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet —
Alas, that the torn heart can bleed but not forget.
A deep and breathless awe like the swift change
Of dreams unseen but felt in youthful slumbers
Wild sweet yet incommunicably strange
Thou breathest now in fast ascending numbers...