I sing the pale ballades of eld,
Of kisses lost without reward,
And lo, on love's luxurious sward,
The nuptials of the sick are held.

Voices thro' my slumber sound:
Listlessly they gather near.
Lilies bloom in closes where
Star nor sun hath blessed the ground.

And lo, these ghosts of old desire,
These lagging throbs of impulse crost,
Are paupers in a palace lost,
Sick tapers in the auroral fire.

When shall the moon my vision bathe,
That seeks to plumb the eternal streams
Of darkness, and about my dreams
Her slow cerulean raiment swathe?