Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean: The world has grown grey from thy breath! - Algernon Charles Swinburne

I have no remedy for fear; there grows
No herb of help to heal a coward heart.

Lying asleep between the strokes of night
I saw my love lean over my sad bed,
Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head,
Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,
Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,
But perfect-coloured without white or red.
And her lips opened amorously, and said — I wist not what, saving one word — Delight.

And all her face was honey to my mouth,
And all her body pasture to my eyes;
The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire,
The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,
The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs
And glittering eyelids of my soul's desire.

Time and the Gods are at strife; ye dwell in the midst thereof,
Draining a little life from the barren breasts of love.