Classic Poem

I REMEMBER but half-aright,
Through the wine, a cloud of hair,
And her breast's dishevelled white;
While a perfume touched the air,
And her eyes grew cold with light.

I remember the colour's play
In the carmine wine, and round
The hush of an infant day
The viol's silver sound
Burn up and sob away.

Behold she comes to me now
And I kiss her naked hand,
For her sin of the lips and brow
And love—I can understand
And praise for the good I know.

Your virtue is sterile as drouth
And vain as your chilly words:
This woman is all my youth
Of wine, and the clash of swords,
And a kiss on the open mouth.

So give me her lips again,
For I care not if heaven condemn,
I have set on the brows of pain
Her desire for diadem—
And life has been so much gain!