—     2     — 
 
Are molten dew, as, on the lotus leaves 
Sliver-coiled in the Sun 
Into green-girdled spheres 
Purer than all a maiden’s dream enweaves, 
Lies the unutterable Beauty of 
The waters.  Yea, arise, divinest dove 
Of the Idalian, on your crimson wings 
And soft grey plumes, bear me to yonder shrine 
Of that most softly-spoken one, 
Mine Aphrodite !  Touch the imperfect strings, 
Oh thou, immortal, throned above the moon ! 
Inspire a holy tune 
Lighter and lovelier than flowers and wine 
Offered in gracious gardens unto Pan 
By any soul of man ! 
 
In vain the solemn stars pour their pale dews 
Upon my trembling spirit ;  their caress 
Leaves me moon-rapt in waves of loveliness 
All thine, O rose, O wrought of many a muse 
In Music, O thou strength of ecstasy 
Incarnate in a woman-form, create 
Of her own rapture, infinite, ultimate, 
Not to be seen, not grasped, not even imaginable, 
But known of one, by virtue of that spell 
Of thy sweet will toward him :  thou, unknown, 
Untouched, grave mistress of the sunlight throne 
Of thine own nature ;  known not even of me,