SONNET XII
THE ROSE OF NIGHT
“She kept me awake, as a tune of Mozart's might do.”
—Keats
And
she kept me awake, but not the same
The vision, or the phantasy of sound
That kept my sleepless senses still unbound
And all my heart encircled by a flame,
But rather as if some splendid flower came
Waving a magic mist of perfume round,
And occupied my being itself, and wound
About me with a most imperious claim,
Coloured as is a choice kaleidoscope;
And ever and anon the clouds would rise,
And, as a moon, would beam before my eyes
That, far from closing, ever wider ope,
The form that to the craving clasp of hope
Pursuing, she retreating still denies.
1871.
