O love, thy hair! thy locks of night and musk!
the very wind therein doth lose her way,
while in the perfumed darkness she would stray;
and my heart, too, is lost in scented dusk.
Thy crescent brows irradiate the night;
love, of thy lips and tresses give thou me_
thy breast is like a restless, heaving sea;
Thine eyes are stars of sorrow and delight.
Yet grieve not that I grieve, soul of the sea_
What is my heart that thou shouldst comfort it
with wine or song, with smile or dance or wit?
Dusk of my threshold is enough for me.
