No poet, no artist of any sort, has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists. - T.S.Eliot
* * *
And I lie wordless at the feet
Of her who is my heart's desire,
My secret love; a whitewinged fire
Swift storms across the threshold sweep...
What pain, what sweet delight, what bliss
To speak your tender name, to kiss
Your train by stealth, near you to linger
While blizzards sing, while loudly sing they!..
In its dark prison ceil benighted,
The heart in drunken rapture reels.
Cold, snowy blooms your lashes lightly,
Your peaceful, silk-soft lashes seal.
Like one by wild winds overpowered
That as he runs begin to blow,
I seem to see a lifeless flower
Before me rise from out the snow...
And oft, however sadly, gently,
The name of my Snow Maiden slips
Like soft snow from a frozen petal
In secret from my trembling lips.