I bring my piteous work, in form
Like the dreaming of a corse,
And the moon illumes the storm
O'er the creatures of remorse.
There the purple snakes of dream
Writhing twine till sleep be done;
Crowned with swords, my longings gleam;
Lions are whelmed in the sun,
Lilies in waters desolate,
Clenched hands that may not move,
And the ruddy stems of hate,
Bearing verdant woes of love--
Lord, pity our mortal speech!
O that my prayers, morose and dim,
With the dishevelled moon may reach
And reap the night to the world's rim