O laughter and passion-sighs,
And sobs that the sick breast heaves!
Sick and with half-closed eyes
Among dishevelled leaves,
My hate's hyenas slouching,
My sin's yellow dogs, and, large,
At the weary, pale desert's marge,
The lions of love are crouching!
In a listless dream they lie,
And, languid and oppressed,
Under their colourless sky
They watch, and shall without rest,
Temptation's sheep together,
Or one by one, depart,
And in the moon at tether
The passions of my heart.