SPELL

From the moonlit brink of dreams

        I stretch foiled hands to thee,

O borne down other streams

        Than eye can think to see!

O crowned with spirit-beams!

        O veiled spirituality!

My dreams and thoughts abate

        Their pennons at thy feet,

O angel born too late

        For fallen men to meet!

In what new sensual state

        Could our twined lives feel sweet?

What new emotion must

        I dream to think thee mine?

What purity of lust?

        O tendrilled as a vine

Around my caressed trust!

        O dream-pressed spirit-wine!