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And every evening, strange, immutable, (Is it a dream no waking proves?) As to a rendezvous inscrutable A silken lady darkly moves.

She slowly passes by the drunken ones And lonely by the window sits; And from her robes, above the sunken ones, A misty fainting perfume flits.

Her silks' resilience, and the tapering Of her ringed fingers, and her plumes, Stir vaguely like dim incense vaporing, Deep ancient faiths their mystery illumes.

I try, held in this strange captivity, To pierce the veil that darkling falls— I see enchanted shores' declivity, And an enchanted distance calls.

I guard dark secrets' tortuosities. A sun is given me to hold. An acrid wine finds out the sinuosities That in my soul were locked of old.

And in my brain the soft slow flittering Of ostrich feathers waves once more; And fathomless the azure glittering Where two eyes blossom on the shore.

My soul holds fast its treasure renitent, The key is safe and solely mine. Ah, you are right, drunken impenitent! I also know: truth lies in wine.