The tuberose thickens the air: a swoon

lies close on open’d calyx and slipt sheath

thro’ all the garden bosom-bound beneath

dense night that hangs, her own perturbing moon:

 

no star: and heaven and earth, seeking their boon,

meet in this troubled blood whereunder seethe

cravings of darkling bliss whose fumes enwreathe

some rose of rare-reveal’d delight: oh, soon! —

 

Ay, surely near — the hour consents to bless! —

and nearer yet, all ways of night converge

in that delicious dark between her breasts

 

whom night and bloom and wayward blood confess,

where all the world’s desire is wild to merge

its multitude of single suffering nests.