Dear you were as is the tree of Being
To the happy dead in heaven's bowers....
Whence and what, this evil spell that flings me
Forth from love with loveless eyes unseeing?
Fair you were as nymph or queen of vision,
Bosomed like the succubi of dreams. . . .
All your beauty turns to sad, ironic
Weariness, and sorrowful derision.
Lo, of what avail our spent caresses—
Kisses that set the summer night aflame? . . .
Mute, enormous languor without cause—
What is this my autumn heart confesses ?
All your breast was fragrant like the flowers
Of the grape on hills toward the south....
Love is acrid now like staling asters
Sodden with the rain of autumn hours.