Classic Poem

E. A. P OE and The P RE -R APHAELITES Join Hands.

He yearned to her with every call and fresh
Lure of her wanton flesh.
" Let Death withhold his hands till I have been
Held in your fluent hair as in a mesh;
Unpenitent and glad, exulting in
Some strange and splendid sin!

" Give me your lips again, your hands, your frail
Beauty, perverse and pale;
Your eyes that tremble like a startled wren.
Here is my solace; here all wisdoms fail;
Here is more strength than in a world of men —
Your lips... again — again! . . "

Then, like a wave, the madness leaped and died;
Passion grew hollow-eyed.
Her voice no longer swayed; the music thinned...
And as, with sickening soul, he turned aside,
The moon, a goblin riding on the wind,
Peered through the blinds — and grinned.