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Вдохновило это стихотворение:

The light was faint, and soft the air

That breathed around the place;

And she was lithe and tall and fair,

And with a wayward grace

Her queenly head she bare -





With glowing cheek, with gleaming eye,

She met me on the way;

My spirit owned the witchery

Within her smile that lay;

I followed her, I know not why.





The trees were thick with many a fruit,

The grass with many a flower;

My soul was dead, my tongue was mute

In that accursed hour.





And in my dream, with silvery voice

She said or seemed to say

'Youth is the season to rejoice'-

I could not say her nay,

I could not choose but stay.





She plucked a branch above her head

With rarest fruitage laden.

'Drink of the juice sir Knight', she said,

'Tis good for knight and maiden.'





Oh blind my eyes that would not trace:

Oh deaf my ear that would not heed -

The mocking smile upon her face,

The mocking voice of greed!



[CENTER]

I drank the juice and straightway felt

A fire within my brain:

My soul within me seemed to melt

In sweet delirious pain.





'Sweet is the stolen draught' she said:

'Hath sweetness stint or measure?

Pleasant the secret hoard of bread:

What bars us from our pleasure?'





'Yea, take we pleasure while we may,'

I heard myself replying.

In the red sunset far away

My happier life was dying:

My heart was sad, my voice was gay.





And unawares, I know not how,

I kissed her dainty finger tips,

I kissed her on the lily brow,

I kissed her on the false, false lips-

That burning kiss, I feel it now!





'True love gives true love of the best:

Then take', I cried, 'my heart to thee!'

The very heart from out my breast

I plucked, I gave it willingly.

Her very heart she gave to me -

Then died the glory from the west.





In the gray light I saw her face,

And it was withered old and gray:

The flowers were fading in their place

The grass was fading where we lay.





Forth from her, like a hunted deer,

Through all that ghastly night I fled,

And still behind me seemed to hear

Her fierce unflagging tread,

And scarce drew breath for fear.





Yet marked I well how strangely seemed

The heart within my breast to sleep:

Silent it lay, or so I dreamed,

With never a throb or leap





For hers was now my heart, she said,

The heart that once had been my own,

And in my breast I bore instead

A cold cold heart of stone;

So grew the morning overhead.





The sun shone downward throught the trees

His old familiar flame.

All ancient sounds upon the breeze

From copse and meadow came-

But I was not the same





They call me mad: I smile, I weep

Uncaring how or why

Yea, when one's heart is laid asleep,

What better than to die?





To die! To die? And yet,

I drink of Life today

Deep as the thirsty traveller drinks

Of fountain by the way.

My voice is sad, my heart is gay.





When yestereve was on the wane

I heard a clear voice singing

So sweetly that, like summer rain,

My happy tears came springing:

My human heart returned again.

A rosy child -

Sitting and singing in a garden fair; The joy of hearing, seeing;

The simple joy of being -

Or twining roses in the golden hair

That ripples free and wild





A sweet pale child -

Wearily looking to the purple west -

Waiting the great Forever

That suddeny shall sever

The cruel chains that hold her from her rest -

By earth joys unbeguiled.





An angel-child -

Gazing with living eyes on a dead face -

The mortal form forsaken,

That none may now awaken -

That lieth painless, moveless in her place,

As though in death she smiled.





Be as a child -

So shalt thou sing for very joy of breath.

So shalt thou wait thy dying

In holy transport lying -

So pass rejoicing through the gate of Death

In garment undefiled.







Then call me what they will, I know

That now my soul is glad:

If this be madness, better so:

Far better to be mad,

Weeping or smiling as I go.





For if I weep, it is that now

I see how deep a loss is mine,

And feel how brightly round my brow

The coronal might shine,

Had I but kept my early vow -





And if I smile, it is that now

I see the promise of the years -

The garland waiting for my brow,

That must be won with tears -

With pain - with death - I care not how.