Ode XXXIV

I am a painter, a maker of pictures; every moment I shape a beauteous form,
And then in thy presence I melt them all away.
I call up a hundred phantoms and indue them with a spirit;
When I behold thy phantom, I cast them in the fire.
Art thou the Vintners cup-bearer or the enemy of him who is sober,
Or is it thou who mak’st a ruin of every house I build?
In thee the soul is dissolved, with thee it is mingled;
Lo! I will cherish the soul, because it has a perfume of thee.
Every drop of blood which proceeds from me is saying to thy dust:
I am one colour with thy love, I am the partner of thy affection.’
In the house of water and clay this heart is desolate without thee;
O Beloved, enter the house, or I will leave it.