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Art Institute of Chicago

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And Lycius' Arms Were Empty of Delight
Checking His Love Trance, a Cup He Took Full Brimm'd
The Sophist's Eye, Like a Sharp Spear, Went Through Her Utterly
They All Moved to the Feast
What Wreath for Lamia? What for Lycius? What for the Sage
And Shut the Chamber Up, Close, Hush'd and Still
He Met Within the Murmurous Vestibule, His Young Disciple
She Nothing Said, But Pale and Meek, Arose and Knelt Before Him
It Was the Custom Then to Bring Away the Bride From Home
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