The sun is enveloped in crape! like it, O Moon of my Life! wrap thyself up in shade; At will, smoke or slumber, be silent, be staid, And dive deep down in Dispassion's dark pit. I cherish thee thus! But if 'tis thy mood, Like a star that from out its penumbra appears, To float in the regions where madness careers, Fair dagger! burst forth from thy sheath! 'tis good. Yea, light up thine eyes at the Fire of Renown! Or kindle desire by the looks of some clown! Thine All is my joy, whether dull or aflame! Just be what thou wilt, black night, dawn divine, There is not a nerve in my trembling frame But cries, "I adore thee, Beelzebub mine!"