Often, before the mortal mouth has known
What fruit the vagrant phoenixes devour
In Melusina's or Armida's bower,
Not fully savored are the apples grown
In charmless orchards closed about with stone:
Only to one returned, in some late hour,
From shores of lote where guardian scyllas glower,
The sweetness of the fruits of earth is shown.

Thus, turning from translunar seasons bleak,
Or borderlands of Endor, ill to seek,
Where necromancy's wandering wisps grow dim
And Lilith and her night-bound daughters dwell,
Love finds again some fleshly citadel,
Safe-walled, with many a pleasance sweet to him.