Illumination

Musing upon the mysteries of the flesh, I am as some hierophant of old For whom the temple's hidden valves unfold. Remembering now your tresses' heavy mesh A little harsh beneath my pillowed face; The savor of your bosom and the scent; Your warmth, a blissful essence immanent, Flooding my veins in the long unstirred embrace; Your eyes, beheld so close their glory seemed One strange great orb; your laughter's gentle fall:— Remembering these, I know the mystical Round lotos ripening, locked in garths of night, And sighing of those live fountains that have streamed In Edens of a seven-sensed delight.