Kissing her hair I sat against her feet, | |
Wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet; | |
Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes, | |
Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies; | |
With her own tresses bound and found her fair, | |
Kissing her hair. | |
Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, | |
Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea; | |
What pain could get between my face and hers? | |
10 | What new sweet thing would love not relish worse? |
Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there, | |
Kissing her hair? |