CLYTIE, beyond all praise, thou goodliest

Of queens, thou royal woman, crowned with tears,

That could not move the dull stars from their spheres

To kiss thee. For the sun would fainter rest

In the gold chambers of the glowing west

Than answer thy love, thine, whose soul endears

All souls but his, whose slow desire fears

The fierce embraces of thine olive breast.

O Queen, sun-lover, we are wed with thee

In changeless love, in passion for a fire

Whose lips bind all men in their bitter spell;

A love whose first caress, hard won, would be

The final dissolution of desire,

A flame to shrivel us with fire of hell. {120A}


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