There are the burning lamps of them, Splendid star-clusters to begem The trailing torrents of those blue Bright wings that bear mine angel through!

Where ice on my bosom is piled, Where palm-fronded islands begem My breast, where I rage in the wild White storms, where I lap the low hem Of earth's mantle, or war on her crags, I am one, and my soul is in them.

_100 Those lonely realms bright garden-isles begem, With lightsome clouds and shining seas between, And fertile valleys, resonant with bliss, Whilst green woods overcanopy the wave, Which like a toil-worn labourer leaps to shore, _105 To meet the kisses of the flow'rets there. '

Or else dream on and let no tears begem Love's crown of thorns, ensanguine diadem, But let pale kisses blossom, starry shrine Of lips most deathlike, that endure divine Past sleep's, or parting's, or death's spoil of them In the pomegranate walks of Proserpine!