Illusion

WHAT is the love of shadowy lips That know not what they seek or press, From whom the lure for ever slips And fails their phantom tenderness? The mystery and light of eyes That near to mine grow dim and cold; They move afar in ancient skies Mid flame and mystic darkness rolled. O beauty, as thy heart o’erflows In tender yielding unto me, A vast desire awakes and grows Unto forgetfulness of thee. George William Russell ('A. E.')