the temptress of his villanelle. Her eyes, dark and with a look of languor, were opening to his eyes. Her nakedness yielded to him, radiant, warm, odorous and lavish-limbed, enfolded him like a shining cloud, enfolded him like water with a liquid life; and like a cloud of vapour or like waters circumfluent in space the liquid letters of speech, symbols of the element of mystery, flowed forth over his brain.
Are you not weary of ardent ways, Lure of the fallen seraphim? Tell no more of enchanted days.
Your eyes have set man’s heart ablaze And you have had your will of him. Are you not weary of ardent ways?
Above the flame the smoke of praise Goes up from ocean rim to rim. Tell no more of enchanted days.
Our broken cries and mournful lays Rise in one eucharistic hymn. Are you not weary of ardent ways?
While sacrificing hands upraise The chalice flowing to the brim. Tell no more of enchanted days.
And still you hold our longing gaze With languorous look and lavish limb! Are you not weary of ardent ways? Tell no more of enchanted days.