Lying asleep between the strokes of night I saw my love lean over my sad bed, Pale as the duskiest lilly’s leaf or head, Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite, Too wan for blushing and too warm for white, But perfect-coloured without white or red. And her
I did not choose thee, dearest. It was Love That made the choice, not I. Mine eyes were blind As a rude shepherd’s who to some lone grove His offering brings and cares not at what shrine He bends his knee. The gifts alone were mine; The rest was Love’s.
I see you, Juliet, still, with your straw hat Loaded with vines, and with your dear pale face, On which those thirty years so lightly sat, And the white outline of your muslin dress. You wore a little fichu trimmed with lace And crossed in front, as was the fashion
The hunchèd camels of the night Trouble the bright And silver waters of the moon. The Maiden of the Morn will soon Through Heaven stray and sing, Star gathering. Now while the dark about our loves is strewn, Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come! And night
My heart was winter-bound until I heard you sing; O voice of Love, hush not, but fill My life with Spring! My hopes were homeless things before I saw your eyes; O smile of Love, close not the door To paradise! My dreams were bitter once, and then I found
Strange Power, I know not what thou art, Murderer or mistress of my heart. I know I’d rather meet the blow Of my most unrelenting foe Than live—as now I live—to be Slain twenty times a day by thee. Yet, when I would command thee hence, Thou mockest at the