Lovers
Why should I ask perfection of thee, sweet,
That have so little of mine own to bring?
That thou art beautiful from head to feet—
Is that, beloved, such a little thing,
That I should ask more of thee, and should fling
Thy largesse from me, in a world like this,
O generous giver of thy perfect kiss?
Thou gavest me thy lips, thine eyes, thine hair;
I brought thee worship—was it not thy due?
If thou art cruel—still art thou not fair?
Roses thou gavest—shalt thou not bring rue?
Alas! have I not brought thee sorrow too?
How dare I face the future and its drouth,
Missing that golden honeycomb thy mouth?
Kiss and make up—'tis the wise ancient way;
Back to my arms, O bountiful deep breast!
No more of words that know not what they say;
To kiss is wisdom—folly all the rest.
Dear loveliness so mercifully pressed
Against my heart—I shake with sudden fear
To think—to losing thee I came so near.
