 | The Triumph of Love |  |
IV
Love's arms enfold me, but his eyes are hid:Mine turn to meet them when his fond embrace
Glows through my heart; but on each lifted lid
He prints a kiss,—and darkness veils his face.
O Love, divinest lover, on thy breast
I lie entranced: thy warm ambrosial breath
Fills me with yearning dreams that break my rest:—
I cry for light,—but all is dark as death.
What if, with prying eyes, with lamp aglow,
I dared to lift the curtain of Love's night,
Would not my hand, heart-shaken, tremble so,
Thrilled by a beauty so divinely bright,
That, fluttering down, one drop of liquid fire
Would scare Love hence, and quench my soul's desire?
| The Triumph of Love | |