Passionale

Her eyes, twin pools of mystic light,
The blend of star-sheen and black night;
O'er which, to sound their glamouring haze,
A man might bend, and vainly gaze.

Her eyes, twin pools so dark and deep,
In which life's ancient mysteries sleep;
Wherein, to seek the quested goal,
A man might plunge, and lose his soul.

Your lips are wine, --
O Heart's Desire,
Give me the flame
Of their passion-kindling fire;
The world melts away
In the glow of your kiss,
And leaves just you and me,
Alone in silent bliss.
 
Your lips again,
Give them to mine,
One more full draught
Of their nectar'd anodyne.
In the fold of your arms
Lull me softly, softly until
There comes the wondrous calm
Of love so deep and still.

Your eyes so deep and tender are,
Soft with the glamour of a star,
Bright with the gentle light that lies
In placid streams and sunny skies;
Your eyes so tender are.
And yet, those melting, smiling eyes,
From out their depths so sweet,
Have lanced a cruel, piercing dart;
And now my wounded, bleeding heart
Lies captive at your feet.

Your lips are like a sweet, red rose,
That in some scented garden grows;
A dewy rose, so sweet and red,
That blooms amidst a lily bed;
Your lips are like a rose.
And yet, those velvet-petal’d lips
A honey’d poison brew,
That through my veins has run like fire,
And filled my soul with love’s desire,
And left me mad for you.

The glory of the day was in her face,
The beauty of the night was in her eyes.
And over all her loveliness, the grace
Of Morning blushing in the early skies.

And in her voice, the calling of the dove;
Like music of a sweet, melodious part.
And in her smile, the breaking light of love;
And all the gentle virtues in her heart.

And now the glorious day, the beauteous night,
The birds that signal to their mates at dawn,
To my dull ears, to my tear-blinded sight
Are one with all the dead, since she is gone.