To my remote abandonment
Your deep and lustrous hair has lent
How many an autumn-colored dream;
Your eyes bring many an April gleam
To this my place of uncontent.

Like torchy fires your footsteps leap
Where covens of lost dreamers keep
Their sabbat and their bacchanal;
Your breasts are moons that mount and fall
Through the dim, turbulent climes of sleep.

Among the rondured hills that merge
Into the prone horizon-verge,
My haunted eyes have seen, have felt,
Your mobile hips at twilight melt,
Your supple bosom lift and surge.

In dryad ways not understood
You stir and whisper through the wood.
Far off the throbbing waters flow
Against a sanguine afterglow
Like the sweet pulses of your blood.

At morning, from the cloudy south,
Your tresses sweep athwart my drouth.
Night bears amid its magic bower
Your body's many-scented flower
And bud and blossom of your mouth.