The Demon, in my lofty vault,
This morning came to visit me,
And striving me to find at fault,
He said, "Fain would I know of thee;
"Among the many beauteous things,
--All which _her_ subtle grace proclaim--
Among the dark and rosy things,
Which go to make her charming frame,
"Which is the sweetest unto thee"?
My soul! to Him thou didst retort--
"Since all with her is destiny,
Of preference there can be nought.
When all transports me with delight,
If aught deludes I can not know,
She either lulls one like the Night,
Or dazzles like the Morning-glow.
That harmony is too divine,
Which governs all her body fair,
For powerless mortals to define
In notes the many concords there.
O mystic metamorphosis
Of all my senses blent in one!
Her voice a beauteous perfume is,
Her breath makes music, chaste and wan.