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.

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