The Flask

There are some powerful odours that can pass     Out of the stoppard flagon; even glass     To them is porous. Oft when some old box     Brought from the East is opened and the locks     And hinges creak and cry; or in a press     In some deserted house, where the sharp stress     Of odours old and dusty fills the brain;     An ancient flask is brought to light again,     And forth the ghosts of long-dead odours creep.     There, softly trembling in the shadows, sleep     A thousand thoughts, funereal chrysalides,     Phantoms of old the folding darkness hides,     Who make faint flutterings as their wings unfold,     Rose-washed and azure-tinted, shot with gold.     A memory that brings languor flutters here:     The fainting eyelids droop, and giddy Fear     Thrusts with both hands the soul towards the pit     Where, like a Lazarus from his winding-sheet,     Arises from the gulf of sleep a ghost     Of an old passion, long since loved and lost.     So I, when vanished from man's memory     Deep in some dark and sombre chest I lie,     An empty flagon they have cast aside,     Broken and soiled, the dust upon my pride,     Will be your shroud, beloved pestilence!     The witness of your might and virulence,     Sweet poison mixed by angels; bitter cup     Of life and death my heart has drunken up!