I am weighed down beneath a clustering load Of fragrances, rich Sounds and lovely shapes, Like one who toils along a doubtful road With the glad wealth of purple-glinting grapes. I seem to stagger from an ancient city With golden armor, swords, fierce jewels, rings, -- Treasure that stirs deep memories with the pity Of fate-foiled heroes and forgotten kings. And then I dream I bear a love-ripe maiden, Whose folded eyelids flutter; and I thirst To touch her throat, her lips, till, rapture-laden, It seems at length as if my heart would burst. Yet, Beauty-faint, I would not lose one shade, Or note or scent that Beauty's hand hath made. |