As to the drunkard who at morn doth wake
Are the clear waters of the virgin spring
Wherewith he bathes his eyes that burn and sting
And his intolerable thirst doth slake,
So is the thought of thee to me, who break
One sober moment, sick and shuddering,
From all my life's unworthiness, to fling
Me at thy memory's feet, and for Love's sake
Pray that thy peace may enter in my soul.
Love, thou hast heart! My veins more calmly flow—
The madness of the night is pa**ed away—
Fire of false eyes, thirst of the cursèd bowl—
I drink deep of thy purity, and lo!
Thou hast given me new heart to meet the day.