The Demon, in my lofty vault,
This morning came to visit me,
And striving me to find at fault,
He said, "Fain would I know of thee;

"Among the many beauteous things,
—All which her subtle grace proclaim—
Among the dark and rosy things,
Which go to make her charming frame,

"Which is the sweetest unto thee"?
My soul! to Him thou didst retort—
"Since all with her is destiny,
Of preference there can be nought.

When all transports me with delight,
If aught deludes I can not know,
She either lulls one like the Night,
Or dazzles like the Morning-glow.

That harmony is too divine,
Which governs all her body fair,
For powerless mortals to define
In notes the many concords there.

O mystic metamorphosis
Of all my senses blent in one!
Her voice a beauteous perfume is,
Her breath makes music, chaste and wan.