Avowal

Whatever alien fruits and changeling faces And pleasances of mutable perfume The flambeaux of the senses shall illume Amid the night-furled labyrinthine spaces, In lives to be, in unestablished places, All, all were vain as the rock-raveled spume If no strange close restore the Paphian bloom, No path return the moon-shod maenad's paces. Yea, for the lover of lost pagan things, No vintage grown in islands unascended Shall quite supplant the old Bacchantic urn, No mouth that new, Canopic suns make splendid Content the mouth of sealed rememberings Where still the nymph's uncleaving kisses burn.