by Clark Ashton Smith
There is no peace amid the moonlight and the pines;
Deep in the windless gloom the lamplike thought of you
Abides; and ah, what burning memories pursue
My heart among the pallid marbles! . . . Night assigns
Your silver face for wardress of the doors of sleep;
Beyond the wilder bourns of dreamland flown, your eyes
Are amber planets on the ultimate lost skies;
Moonlike and dim, you wander ever in the deep
Which is the nethermost unknowable abyss
Of my own soul, and in its night your spirit lives.
Shall I not find the very draught that Lethe gives
Salt with your tears, and sweet with savor of your kiss?