A month or twain to live on honeycomb | |
Is pleasant; but one tires of scented time, | |
Cold sweet recurrence of accepted rhyme, | |
And that strong purple under juice and foam | |
Where the wine’s heart has burst; | |
Nor feel the latter kisses like the first. | |
Once yet, this poor one time; I will not pray | |
Even to change the bitterness of it, | |
The bitter taste ensuing on the sweet, | |
10 | To make your tears fall where your soft hair lay |
All blurred and heavy in some perfumed wise | |
Over my face and eyes. | |
And yet who knows what end the scythèd wheat | |
Makes of its foolish poppies’ mouths of red? | |
These were not sown, these are not harvested, | |
They grow a month and are cast under feet | |
And none has care thereof, | |
As none has care of a divided love. | |
I know each shadow of your lips by rote, | |
20 | Each change of love in eyelids and eyebrows; |
The fashion of fair temples tremulous | |
With tender blood, and colour of your throat; | |
I know not how love is gone out of this, | |
Seeing that all was his. | |
Love’s likeness there endures upon all these: | |
But out of these one shall not gather love. | |
Day hath not strength nor the night shade enough | |
To make love whole and fill his lips with ease, | |
As some bee-builded cell | |
30 | Feels at filled lips the heavy honey swell. |
I know not how this last month leaves your hair | |
Less full of purple colour and hid spice, | |
And that luxurious trouble of closed eyes | |
Is mixed with meaner shadow and waste care; | |
And love, kissed out by pleasure, seems not yet | |
Worth patience to regret. |