“Cold eyelids that hide like a jewelHard eyes that grow soft for an hour;The heavy white limbs, and the cruelRed mouth like a venomous flower;When these have gone by with their glories,What shall rest of thee then, what remain,O mystic and somber Delores,Our Lady of Pain?”

“If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together, In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowerful closes, Green pleasure or grey grief; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf.”

“A MatchIf love were what the rose is,And I were like the leaf,Our lives would grow togetherIn sad or singing weather,Blown fields or flowerful closes,Green pasture or gray grief;If love were what the rose is,And I were like the leaf.If I were what the words are,And love were like the tune,With double sound and singleDelight our lips would mingle,With kisses glad as birds areThat get sweet rain at noon;If I were what the words are,And love were like the tune.If you were life, my darling,And I your love were death,We'd shine and snow togetherEre March made sweet the weatherWith daffodil and starlingAnd hours of fruitful breath;If you were life, my darling,And I your love were death.If you were thrall to sorrow,And I were page to joy,We'd play for lives and seasonsWith loving looks and treasonsAnd tears of night and morrowAnd laughs of maid and boy;If you were thrall to sorrow,And I were page to joy.If you were April's lady,And I were lord in May,We'd throw with leaves for hoursAnd draw for days with flowers,Till day like night were shadyAnd night were bright like day;If you were April's lady,And I were lord in May.If you were queen of pleasure,And I were king of pain,We'd hunt down love together,Pluck out his flying-feather,And teach his feet a measure,And find his mouth a rein;If you were queen of pleasure,And I were king of pain.”

“Before PartingA MONTH or twain to live on honeycombIs pleasant; but one tires of scented time,Cold sweet recurrence of accepted rhyme,And that strong purple under juice and foamWhere the wine’s heart has burst;Nor feel the latter kisses like the first.Once yet, this poor one time; I will not prayEven to change the bitterness of it,The bitter taste ensuing on the sweet,To make your tears fall where your soft hair layAll blurred and heavy in some perfumed wiseOver my face and eyes.And yet who knows what end the scythèd wheatMakes of its foolish poppies’ mouths of red?These were not sown, these are not harvested,They grow a month and are cast under feetAnd none has care thereof,As none has care of a divided love.I know each shadow of your lips by rote,Each change of love in eyelids and eyebrows;The fashion of fair temples tremulousWith 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 enoughTo make love whole and fill his lips with ease,As some bee-builded cellFeels at filled lips the heavy honey swell.I know not how this last month leaves your hairLess full of purple colour and hid spice,And that luxurious trouble of closed eyesIs mixed with meaner shadow and waste care;And love, kissed out by pleasure, seems not yetWorth patience to regret.”

“Love, is it morning risen or night deceasedThat makes the mirth of this triumphant east?Is it bliss given or bitterness put byThat makes most glad men's hearts at love's high feast?Grief smiles, joy weeps, that day should live and die."Is it with soul's thirst or with body's drouthThat summer yearns out sunward to the south,With all the flowers that when thy birth drew nighWere molten in one rose to make thy mouth?O love, what care though day should live and die?"Is the sun glad of all love on earth,The spirit and sense and work of things and worth?Is the moon sad because the month must flyAnd bring her death that can but bring back birth?For all these things as day must live and die."Love, is it day that makes thee thy delightOr thou that seest day made out of thy light?Love, as the sun and sea are thou and I,Sea without sun dark, sun without sea bright;The sun is one though day should live and die."O which is elder, night or light, who knows?And life or love, which first of these twain grows?For life is born of love to wail and cry,And love is born of life to heal his woes,And light of night, that day should live and die."O sun of heaven above the wordly sea,O very love, what light is this of thee!My sea of soul is deep as thou art high,But all thy light is shed through all of me,As love's through love, while day shall live and die.”

“Lying asleep between the strokes of nightI saw my love lean over my sad bed,Pale as the duskiest lily'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 lips opened amorously, and said--I wist not what, saving one word--Delight. And all her face was honey to my mouth,And all her body pasture to my eyes;The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire,The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighsAnd glittering eyelids of my soul's desire.”

“I am tired of tears and laughter,And men that laugh and weepOf what may come hereafterFor men that sow to reap:I am weary of days and hours,Blown buds of barren flowers,Desires and dreams and powersAnd everything but sleep.”