230 REMINISCENCES OF W. W. STORY. MARCUS ANTONINUS.
What is honor, prudence, interest,
To the wild strength of Love? Oh, best of life, My joy, hope, triumph, glory, my soul's wife, My Cleopatra ! I desire thee so
That all restraint to the wild winds I throw. . . . When I think of her
My soul within my body is astir!
My wild blood pulses, and my hot cheeks glow; Love with its madness overwhelms me so — Oh, for the breath of Egypt! The soft nights Of the voluptuous East. The dear delights — Oh, for the wine my queen alone can pour From her rich nature ! Let me starve no more On this weak tepid drink that never warms
My life blood; but away with shams and forms! Away with Rome! One hour in Egypt's eyes Is worth a score of Roman centuries.
... Tell her till I see
Those eyes I do not live—that Rome to me
Is hateful—tell her—Oh! I know not what—That every thought and feeling, space and spot Is like an ugly dream, where is she not.
DEDICATED TO J. L. M.
Here, Charmian, take my bracelets,
They bar with a purple stain
My arms; turn over the pillows
They are hot where I have lain; Open the lattice wider,
A gauze o'er my bosom throw, And let me inhale the odors
That o'er the garden blow.