My days are as a garden, where the dust
Of acrid fruits of Sodom sows the ground,
And bows vermillion lillies lofty-crowned,
Or fills the myriad mouths of sleepy lust,
The poppies raise...And emptied secretly,
Dull ashes from the urns of all the dead,
Have sealed the fountain and the fountain-head,
And pall-wise draped the pines and myrtle-tree.

My life, an isle in seas of languor lost,
And implicated in airs of clinging grey,
In mists of muffled light and moons undone,
Hears, in the doubtful echoes ocean-tossed,
Of love and pain in regions far away,
Beneath the unbelievable red sun.