Classic Poem

There are hours I imagine
that I am dead;
that I perceive only forms
wound in the shrouds of time;
that I am scarce a phantasm
seen by some in dreams;
that I am a sleepless bird
in its blindness blindly singing;
that I fled thither — I know not when —
whither " she " and " he " departed;
that I seek them, seek
them and see them not,
and that I am a shadow among shadows,
in endless night.

But of a sudden life
dawns on fire
and I hear a voice that calls me,
as before, crying loud;
and thronging desire
at the sight runs riot
and the senses ramp
like ravening lions. . . .
And here, here dwells a soul
so close, so deep within,
that to tear it from my breast
were to tear forth my own. . . .
And I am the same again,
dreaming I am awake
and astride on life
as on an unbridled colt. . . .

You alone, you who came
like a secret gift to me,
you for whom the night sings
and the silence lightens;
you alone, you who came
from your glorious circle's centre
with loving flight
down to my hell;
you alone, while your hands
stray in my hair
and your eyes rest on mine
before the kiss,
you alone can tell me
if I am alive or dead.