A Fragment

To laud the loves of old,
I sought for splendors fabulous and far:
The curls of one were black Circean petals
Of poppies blown by night
In the sad gardens of a sinful star;
Her eyes were mystic metals,
Wrought with a secret told
By lost archangels in their flight
To women of the worlds that stray
On the red verges of the nether day;
Her voice was like a lulling music blown
At sunset from an isle of spells
Across a lake of rosy nenuphar;
And yet therein
Betimes I caught the chill and crystal bells
That grieved, and grieved alone,
Above the fallen din
Of cities drowsed with revelry and sin.