Foreboding
By George Sterling
Sweet, in this love are terrors that beguile
And joys that make a hazard of my breath.
I seem as one whose pathway wandereth
Where deadly blooms make fair a tropic isle,
And fatal fragrance lureth, many a mile,
The stranger to some gorgeous glade of death.
I dream not of thee save my spirit saith:
"Thy life or doom are hidden by her smile."
Art thou enchantress of the Not-to-be?
A Lilith that can slay without a kiss?
Art crueler because thou art so fair?
I crave thy secret, lest, (unhappy me!)
To eager for the nectar of thy bliss,
Thy scorn become my poison. Love, beware!
Written in Sag Harbor.