My soul was dead, my tongue was mute,
In that accursed hour.
And, in my dream, with silvery voice,
She said, or seemed to say,
"Youth is the season to rejoice—"
I could not choose but stay:
I could not say her nay.
She plucked a branch above her head,
With rarest fruitage laden;
"Drink of the juice, Sir Knight," she said:
"'Tis good for knight and maiden."
Oh, blind mine eye that would not trace—
Oh, deaf mine ear that would not heed—
The mocking smile upon her face,
The mocking voice of greed!
I drank the juice; and straightway felt
A fire within my brain:
My soul within me seemed to melt
In sweet delirious pain.