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 whelmed in the sun,

Lilies in waters desolate,
Clenched hands that may not move,
And the ruddy stems of hate,
'Mid the emerald woes of love

Lord, pity our mortal speech!
O that my prayers, morose and dim,
And the dishevelled moon may reach
And reap the night to the world's rim!