TO YOUR MUSE

When you spill the gown of snow
Over the pure shoulders of your muse
I gather my dark petals
And I am the lily of light alabaster.

To your muse in rose, I open in rose;
My heart is honey, perfume, and fire;
And I live and die of a glorious thirst:
Your living blood should be water spilled on me.

When covered by a tulle of moonlight
It drinks calm and azure in the lake,
I am the swan that soars, dreaming;

And if in magnificent mourning you dress her
To wander along sad paths,
I am the light or the shadow of a stele…