Then we have all degrees of passionate abandonment:--

"I know this perilous love-lane

No whither the traveller leads,

Yet my fancy the sweet scent of

Thy tangled tresses feeds.

"In the midnight of thy locks,

I renounce the day;

In the ring of thy rose-lips,

My heart forgets to pray."

The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 06, April, 1858 A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics · 第 74 / 90 题