Musing upon the mysteries of the flesh,
I am as some hierophant of old
For whom the temple's hidden valves unfold.
Remembering now your tresses' heavy mesh
A little harsh beneath my pillowed face;
The savor of your bosom and the scent;
Your warmth, a blissful essence immanent,
Flooding my veins in the long unstirred embrace;

Your eyes, beheld so close their glory seemed
One strange great orb; your laughter's gentle fall:—
Remembering these, I know the mystical
Round lotos ripening, locked in garths of night,
And sighing of those live fountains that have streamed
In Edens of a seven-sensed delight.