O like some soft insidious breath,
Whose first invasion winneth quite
To all its madness or its death
The heart, resisting not the might
And poison of its new delight,—
E'en so is this that entereth
In whispers, or through subtly wrought
Enchantment snaring every thought;
Yea, by the whole mysterious pore
Of life,—this joy surpassing aught
That heart of man hath known before.
And, though, indeed, a hapless end
Of damning ruin were but sure,
Yet could I none of me defend
From such a sweet and perfect lure;
But must, as long as they endure,
To all these sorceries still lend
My heart; believing how I stand
Nigh some unearthly bliss that lies
Dissembled all before my eyes;—
Do I not see a radiant Hand
Transmuting earth, and air, and skies?
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