MIDNIGHT MOOD
There's one upon whose youthful breast I fain would die:
My soul upon her lingering lips through mine I'd pour
In torrents that would reach and thrill Love's every shore—
In floods that drown the earth and rise to drown the sky.
But how can I? Alas, the leaves must shield the flower,
And silent see her proffering to the butterfly
Her cheeks, her honeyed lips, her soul,—O, how can I?
In all the worlds, to change my being, is there no power?
How oft I rise at night to probe the human laws,
My beating temples all my waking hours recording!
And nor solution, nor repose my task affording.—
How oft my carnal silence cries for the bliss that was!
The bliss that generous nature gives, that man denies—
A bliss that's chained in idle words and damned codes
And creeds and customs creeping in their dark abodes—
The bliss that's lost within an endless maze of lies.
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