Strange goddess, with the hues that darkness gave to thee,
And the perfume of musk immingled with havana—
Black magic, made by some black Faust of the savannah—
Night-born enchantress, flanked with burnished ebony,
I choose, rather than eves of opium, faithfully,
Thy mouth where passion flaunts, raising a philtered urn;
When thee-ward my desires in caravan return,
Thine eyes become the cistern where my quenched ennui
Is quaffing. . . . From those eyes, through which thy soul suspires,
Pitiless demon, pour me not such torrent fires!
My arms are not the Styx to embrace thee and to bear—
Alas! and never, O lewd Megara, is it mine
To break thy pride and put thee to the last despair,
In the hell of thy deep bed a deathless Proserpine