Two loves have I, both children of delight:
One is a youth, like Eros' self, to whom
My heart unfolds, as lotus blossoms bloom
When her mysterious service chants the Night;
And one is like a poppy burning bright.
Her strong black tresses bind the hands of doom,
She is a wraith from some imperial tomb,
Of love enhungered, in the grave's despite.

Lord, though thou be, O Shakespeare, of all rhyme,
Life is more strong than any song of thine.
For thou wast thrall to circumstance, and Care
With rankling poison marred thy singing time:
From hell's own lees I still crush goodly wine,
And like a Greek, and smiling, flout despair!