Within Dark Streams

Oh, fair Ophelia, nymph, that now within those dark streams you flow.
That I might have held you for one moment to spare you the torment.
Then, by whose design was it that you fell?
Oh, spare the lament, you who were the wild child of stray moons, who drew
the tides of me, from me, yet by your own tides were drawn too soon.
Yet was this physic or psychic that I witnesse
d?
Oh, I administered love as much as I did the potion of poesy, yet, still,
how blind you were to devotions.
No bridge here by which to reach you,
drawn away upon the Lethe to your own, dark soul.
And now you are drifted by, all centre where left and right are mere
flamboyance or 'swamp' as you might have it before the swamp had turned
you deaf to earlier wisdoms.
Then, might I return to those streams and find you gone?
But no, where it was that you were found, you claimed to be lost,
chiding other reason but your own childing in all sulky petulan
ce.
So then, not even a bridge to trust.
And thus born of wintered moon, so you shone so cold.
Shiver did I in that light as beckoned to the grove we defied night and its sleep,
crying for less tempered pleasures.
And this, fair Ophelia, was your passage, your passing,
never once giving heed to the wolf-tone.
But here cherry, honey-sweet, so wrapped about the stone.
And blackberry, here, here, thorned to snare and mark in kinship.
Brother? Sister?
Oh, but you fled even before the dawn.
And here the apple, once to be bitten, thrice to be smitten,
that sorrows might be born
to deeper graves than this.