Whither, O, My Sweet Mistress, Must I Follow Thee? For When I Hear Thy Distant Footfall Nearing, And Wait On Thy Appearing, Lo! My Lips Are Silent: No Words Come To Me. Once I Waylaid Thee In Green Forest Covers, Hoping That Spring Might Free My Lips With Gentle Fingers; Alas! Her Presence Lingers No Longer Than On The Plain The Shadow Of Brown Kestrel Hovers. Through Windless Ways Of The Night My Spirit Followed After; Cold And Remote Were They, And There, Possessed By A Strange Unworldly Rest, Awaiting Thy Still Voice Heard Only Starry Laughter. The Pillared Halls Of Sleep Echoed My Ghostly Tread. Yet When Their Secret Chambers I Essayed My Spirit Sank, Dismayed, Waking In Fear To Find The New-Born Vision Fled. Once Indeed - But Then My Spirit Bloomed In Leafy Rapture - I Loved; And Once I Looked Death In The Eyes: So, Suddenly Made Wise, Spoke Of Such Beauty As I May Never Recapture.... Whither, O, Divine Mistress, Must I Then Follow Thee? Is It Only In Love ... Say, Is It Only In Death That The Spirit Blossometh, And Words That May Match My Vision Shall Come To Me?