80
Till it became his life, and his grew mine,
And I was thus absorbed, until it passed,
And like the vapours when the sun sinks down,
Gathering again in drops upon the pines,
And tremulous as they, in the deep night 85
My being was condensed; and as the rays
Of thought were slowly gathered, I could hear
His voice, whose accents lingered ere they died
Like footsteps of weak melody:  thy name
Among the many sounds alone I heard 90
Of what might be articulate; though still
I listened through the night when sound was none. 
Ione wakened then, and said to me: 
’Canst thou divine what troubles me to-night? 
I always knew, what I desired before, 95
Nor ever found delight to wish in vain. 
But now I cannot tell thee what I seek;
I know not; something sweet, since it is sweet
Even to desire; it is thy sport, false sister;
Thou hast discovered some enchantment old, 100
Whose spells have stolen my spirit as I slept
And mingled it with thine:  for when just now
We kissed, I felt within thy parted lips
The sweet air that sustained me, and the warmth
Of the life-blood, for loss of which I faint, 105
Quivered between our intertwining arms.’ 
I answered not, for the Eastern star grew pale,
But fled to thee.

ASIA: 
Thou speakest, but thy words
Are as the air:  I feel them not:  Oh, lift
Thine eyes, that I may read his written soul! 110

PANTHEA: 
I lift them though they droop beneath the load
Of that they would express:  what canst thou see
But thine own fairest shadow imaged there?

ASIA: 
Thine eyes are like the deep, blue, boundless heaven
Contracted to two circles underneath 115
Their long, fine lashes; dark, far, measureless,
Orb within orb, and line through line inwoven.

PANTHEA: 
Why lookest thou as if a spirit passed?

ASIA: 
There is a change:  beyond their inmost depth
I see a shade, a shape:  ’tis He, arrayed 120
In the soft light of his own smiles, which spread
Like radiance from the cloud-surrounded moon. 
Prometheus, it is thine! depart not yet! 
Say not those smiles that we shall meet again
Within that bright pavilion which their beams 125
Shall build o’er the waste world?  The dream is told. 
What shape is that between us?  Its rude hair
Roughens the wind that lifts it, its regard
Is wild and quick, yet ’tis a thing of air,
For through its gray robe gleams the golden dew 130
Whose stars the noon has quenched not.

NOTE:  122 moon B; morn 1820. 126 o’er B; on 1820.