From the moonlit brink of dream
I stretch foiled hands to thee.
O borne down other streams
Than eye can think to see !
O crowned with spirit-beams !
O crowned with spiritually !
My dreams and thoughts abate
Their pennons at thy feet,
O angel born too late
For fallen man to meet !
In what new sensual state
Could our twined lives feed sweet ?
What new emotion must
I dream to think thee mine ?
What purity of lust ?
O ten drilled as a vine
Around my caressed trust ?
O dream-pressed spirit-wine !
This covers me,
that erst had the blue sky.
This soil treads me,
that once I trod.
My hand put these
inscriptions here,
half knowing why;
Last, and hence seeing all,
of the passing band.
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