MAKE thyself known, Sibyl, or let despair br Of knowing thee be absolute; I wait br Hour-long and waste a soul. What word of fate br Hides 'twixt the lips which smile and still forbear? br Secret perfection! Mystery too fair! br Tangle the sense no more lest I should hate br Thy delicate tyranny, the inviolate br Poise of thy folded hands, thy fallen hair.