Duality

Thy soul is like a secret garden-close, Where roots of cleft mandragoras enwreathe; Where bergamot and fumitory breathe, And ivy winds its tower with the rose.

The lolling weeds of Lethe, green or wan, Exhale their fatal languors on the light; From out infernal grails of aconite Poisons and dews are proffered to the dawn.

Here, when the moon’s phantasmal fingers grope To find the marbles of a hidden tomb, There sings the cypress-perchèd nightingale;

And all the silver-bellied serpents pale Their ruby eyes amid the blossoms ope, To lift and listen in the ghostly gloom.