THE WOUNDS OF LOVE

This brilliant light and fire which devour.
This grey expanse by which I am surrounded.
This sorrow which on one idea is founded.
This agony of heaven, world and hour.

These tears of blood with which is dressed
a lyre silent still, a torch of lust.
This sea of which I feel the thrust.
This scorpion which in my heart makes its nest.

They are love's garland, and the wounded's rest,
where, sleepless, I create you in a dream
amongst the ruins of my crushed-in breast;

and though I seek discretion's height supreme
your heart now gives me this vast vale oppressed
by passion's bitter skill, where hemlocks teem.