O Love! what shall be said of thee? | |
The son of grief begot by joy? | |
Being sightless, wilt thou see? | |
Being sexless, wilt thou be | |
Maiden or boy? | |
I dreamed of strange lips yesterday | |
And cheeks wherein the ambiguous blood | |
Was like a rose’s – yea, | |
A rose’s when it lay | |
10 | Within the bud. |
What fields have bred thee, or what groves | |
Concealed thee, O mysterious flower, | |
O double rose of Love’s, | |
With leaves that lure the doves | |
From bud to bower? | |
I dare not kiss it, lest my lip | |
Press harder than an indrawn breath, | |
And all the sweet life slip | |
Forth, and the sweet leaves drip, | |
20 | Bloodlike, in death. |
O sole desire of my delight! | |
O sole delight of my desire! | |
Mine eyelids and eyesight | |
Feed on thee day and night | |
Like lips of fire. | |
Lean back thy throat of carven pearl, | |
Let thy mouth murmur like the dove’s; | |
Say, Venus hath no girl, | |
No front of female curl, | |
30 | Among her Loves. |
Thy sweet low bosom, thy close hair, | |
Thy strait soft flanks and slenderer feet, | |
Thy virginal strange air, | |
Are these not over fair | |
For Love to greet? | |
How should he greet thee? what new name, | |
Fit to move all men’s hearts, could move | |
Thee, deaf to love or shame, | |
Love’s sister, by the same | |
40 | Mother as Love? |
Ah sweet, the maiden’s mouth is cold, | |
Her breast-blossoms are simply red, | |
Her hair mere brown or gold, | |
Fold over simple fold | |
Binding her head. | |
Thy mouth is made of fire and wine, | |
Thy barren bosom takes my kiss | |
And turns my soul to thine | |
And turns thy lip to mine, | |
50 | And mine it is. |
Thou hast a serpent in thine hair, | |
In all the curls that close and cling; | |
And ah, thy breast-flower! | |
Ah love, thy mouth too fair | |
To kiss and sting! | |
Cleave to me, love me, kiss mine eyes. | |
Satiate thy lips with loving me; | |
Nay, for thou shalt not rise; | |
Lie still as Love that dies | |
60 | For love of thee. |
Mine arms are close about thine head, | |
My lips are fervent on thy face, | |
And where my kiss hath fed | |
Thy flower-like blood leaps red | |
To the kissed place. | |
O bitterness of things too sweet! | |
O broken singing of the dove! | |
Love’s wings are over fleet, | |
And like the panther’s feet | |
70 | The feet of Love. |