Dark Angel, with thine aching lust To rid the world of penitence: Malicious Angel, who still dost My soul such subtile violence! - Lionel Pigot Johnson

The winds are sometimes sad to me, The starry spaces, full of fear; Mine is the sorrow on the sea, And mine the sigh of places drear. Some players upon plaintive strings Publish their wistfulness abroad; I have not spoken of these things, Save to one man, and unto God.

Alone he rides, alone, The fair and fatal king: Dark night is all his own, That strange and solemn thing.

Through thee, the gracious Muses turn, To Furies, O mine Enemy! And all the things of beauty burn With flames of evil ecstasy. Because of thee, the land of dreams Becomes a gathering place of fears: Until tormented slumber seems One vehemence of useless tears.