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
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,
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,
Lest thy mouth murmur like the dove's ;
Say, Venus hath no girl,
No front of female curl,
Among her Loves.
Thy sweet low bosom, thy close hair,
Thy straight 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
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,
They barren bosom takes my kiss
And turns my soul to thine
And turns thy lip to mine,
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
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
The feet of Love.