I
Though she hath lifted up my face to hers,
And kissed the lips of worship she denied,
There is no mouth of verse,
Here in the shadow of the crucified,
Or voice of love; only my soul that died,
My dead soul and my curse!—
She asks me now for flowers that are ashes,
Here where the red flow’r of my life lies slain:
For love, that lashed me once and now that lashes
Her soul again.
II
Though she hath gazed into mine eyes and said,
“Belovéd, look thou in my soul and see,”
And I have looked and read
The burthen of a kindred agony,
I am grown glad that this hath come to be
Betwixt the quick and dead.—
She asks me now for songs from love’s sweet psalter,
Here where the music of my life lies hushed:
For love, that died upon the iron altar
Where hers lies crushed.
III
Though she hath touched hot lips to mine and wept,
From out the hell of her wild soul, fierce tears,
Each little look love kept
Of her disdain, unknowingly, these years,
And word of scorn, is crier at mine ears
To wake the hate that slept.—
She asks me now for water that shall cherish,
When hot sands choke my life’s dry fountainhead:
For love, that stirs not though her love should perish
Where mine lies dead.