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?


What new sweet thing would love not relish worse?

Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there,

Kissing her hair?