HILDEGARD
I
Hildegard the dæmons name
Her, who meets me on the mountain:
Her, whose hair is like the flame
Of a sunset-fevered fountain:
I can tell her by her eyes,
Dreadful eyes of bitter beryl,
Where the anguish never dies,
And the suffering soul sits sterile
In such light as ever lies
On the unsailed seas of peril.
II
How we met I never knew.
Once I turned—and there she trembled
Near me, glimmering like the dew
In the sessions of assembled
Flowers.—Hers some influence
Of soft, serpent magnetism,
Vanquishing my every sense
With essential mesmerism;
Holding me beneath the lens
Of her will's compelling prism.
III
I can not escape. She treads
Noiseless as the forest flowers
Walked on by the wind; their heads
Pavements for the mottled hours:
She is whiter than the trees
When their blossoms are unsheathing;
She is lissome as the ease
Of the lilied water wreathing;
She is subtle as the breeze
Through the summer foliage breathing.
IV
When she speaks, within my ears,
Like wild music heard in fever
Is her voice; and it appears
That my soul can never leave her:
Babylonian necromance,
Oldest witcheries,—that harrow
Yet compel,—are hers; her glance
Holds me; and my very marrow
Feels it; and I stand a-trance,
While her pupils slowly narrow.
V
Thus she binds me with her gaze,
While her white hands weigh my shoulders;
And my weak will swings and sways
To her gaze that burns and smolders.
So she draws me far away,
Under boughs where summer dallies:
Over peaks of purple day:
Far away through Eden alleys:
All the way is one long May
Till we come to her dark valleys.
VI
There black tempest treads the peaks;
Iron skies are gulfed asunder,
Whence the lightning's lava leaks,
Vomiting the hosts of thunder.
Here she kisses me till red
With my heart's blood are her kisses;
Then my soul is seized with dread,
For it knows no woman this is:
Yea, behold! it sees instead
But a milk-white snake that hisses.
