So separate and strange was she
saying my name, taking my love.
As though she were the legend of
some ritual of ancient fame,
so separate and strange was she
taking my love, saying my name.
Where I awoke with hungering eyes
it might have been that citron land
of Merlin and his anguished band;
it might have been some mad Cockaigne.
So separate and strange was she
to walk me where the lilies reign;
and there I lay, and fed me quite,
on the slow apples of the night.
Now it were better had I died,
drowned like a sailor as he slept,
washed like a jewel with the tide,
prize to the moon of his surprise
where the flagged fish awoke his fear.
But ah, so witching were her lies -
as to fond music there, I wept,
and low she laughed at every tear
to think I suffered such a change
for one so separate and strange.
