George Henry Boker (1823–1890)

I HAVE been mounted on life’s topmost wave,

Until my forehead kissed the dazzling cloud;

I have been dashed beneath the murky shroud

That yawns between the watery crests. I rave,

Sometimes, like cursed Orestes; sometimes lave

My limbs in dews of asphodel; or, bowed

With torrid heat, I moan to Heaven aloud,

Or shrink with Winter in his icy cave.

Now peace broods over me; now savage rage

Spurns me across the world. Nor am I free

From nightly visions, when the pictured page

Of sleep unfolds its varied leaves to me,

Changing as often as the mimic stage;—

And all this, lady, through my love for thee!