Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/212

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THE POET TELLS OF HIS LOVE
How shall I sing of Her that is My life's long rapture and despair—Sorrow eternal, Loveliness, To whom each heart-beat is a prayer.
Utterly, endlessly, alone Possessing me, yet unpossessed—The dark, the drear Beloved One That takes the tribute of this breast.
Daemon disconsolate, in vain, In vain petitioned and implored,How many a midnight of disdain Darkly and dreadfully adored.
Beauty, the virgin, evermore Out of these arms with laughter fled—Vanished . . . a voice by slope and shore Haunting the world, Illusion dread!
Most secret Siren, on whose coast "Mid spray of perishing song are hurledAll desolate lovers, all the lost Soul and half-poets of the world!
Through sleepless nights and lonely days In tears and terror served and sought—Light beyond light, the supreme Face That blinds the adoring eyes of Thought!
How long shall I sing of Her! Nay all, All song, all sorrow, all silence ofThis desperate heart, that is Her thrall, Trembles and tries to tell my love.
Scribner's MagazineJohn Hall Wheelock

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