Classic Poem

Ah, white, still sister of the blossom-fire,
your lips again! Across the twilight world
the driving wraiths of mist are hurled,
to shroud us in alone with our desire.

Torn by the silver talons of the rain
the wounded petals cover you,—less fair
than the wild fragrance of your hair,
less sweet than this sweet ecstacy of pain.

White maid, there is no God but the red flame
that burns so fiercely in your breast—no bliss
but the hot passion of your kiss—
no music but the whisper of your name.