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Poem	I am black and comely; my lips are glowing; I am passion; my heart is hot; The rapture of life in my veins is flowing. For me thou callest?—I call thee not. Pale is my forehead and gold my tresses; Endless comforts are locked in me, Treasure of hearthside tendernesses. ’Tis I whom thou seekest?—Nay, not thee. I am a dream, afar, forbidden. Vague as the mist on the mountain-brow, A bodiless glory, haunting, hidden; I cannot love thee.—Oh, come! come thou!
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