Poem XXXIV

1I am a painter, a maker of pictures; every moment I shape a beauteous form,And then in thy presence I melt them all away.

2I call up a hundred phantoms and indue them with a spirit;When I behold thy phantom, I cast them in the fire.

3Art thou the Vintner’s cup-bearer or the enemy of him who is sober,Or is it thou who mak’st a ruin of every house I build?

4In thee the soul is dissolved, with thee it is mingled;Lo! I will cherish the soul, because it has a perfume of thee.