Classic Poem

I do not even scorn your lovers—
They clasped an image of you, a cloud,
Not the whole life of you that's mine.

I do not even pity my mistresses—
Such a poor shadow of desire
Their half-warm passion drew from me.

You are a delicate Arab mare
For whom there is but one rider;
I am a sea that takes joyfully
Only one straight ship upon my breast.

Like a dark princess whose beauty
Many have sung, you wear me,
The one jewel that is warmed by your breast.

As a soldier weary of fighting
Turns for peace to some golden city,
So do I turn to you, beloved.

The scarlet that stains your lips and breast-points—
Let it be my blood that dyes them,
My very blood so gladly yielded.

Let it be your flesh and only your flesh
That fashions for me a child
Whose beauty shall be only less than yours.

Everlasting as the sea round the islands
I cry at your door for love;
Everlasting as the unchangeable sea
I cry the infinite for space to love you.

Earth of the earth, body of the earth,
Flesh of our mother, life of all things,
A flower, a bird, a rock, a tree,
Thus I love you, sister and lover,
Would that we had one mother indeed
That we might be bound closer by shame.