Behind such varioius vesture of strange dreams
Abides my soul, I know not its true form;
Nor have I faith it is the thing it seems-
Now hushed in calm, now crying of the storm.

Forevermore the dreams are as a veil
Of strangely-wrought enchantment to my ken,
Wherethrough my soul's eyes make my being quail,
Or bid me wanton with my joys again.

I have no knowledge of the thing it is,
Whether it be of fiend or angel born,
This much I know, beloved, only this:
Beneath thy touch, of all its power shorn,

It yields glad captive to the joy that lies
Sweet on thy ruining lips and laughing eyes.