When first a gentle kiss
Upon Nise I pressed,
Paradise-grain and cassia
Her lovely breath confessed.
And on her smiling lips
Such luscious sweets I found
As never knew the hills
Or bees of Hybla's ground.
To purify its balm
With love's essential dews,
A thousand and a thousand times
Each day her lips I choose;
Until the sum and total
Of all our score amount
To kisses more than Venus
Did from Adonis count.

Alexis calls me cruel:
The rifted crags that hold
The gathered ice of winter,
He says, are not more cold.

When even the very blossoms
Around the fountain's brim,
And forest-walks, can witness
The love I bear to him.

I would that I could utter
My feelings without shame,
And tell him how I love him,
Nor wrong my virgin fame.

Alas! to seize the moment
When heart inclines to heart,
And press a suit with passion,
Is not a woman's part.

If man come not to gather
The roses where they stand,

When love is over, are we most alone.
When hearths are black, there is the cold of stone.
I rise from my bed and walk the dismal night,
Weeping, I seek alone my ultimate right.

The warmth and cheer of Love is but a lure,
By which the blood is cheated to endure.
To each man is a path, by other feet untrod,
Which leads him, lonely, to the hill of God.

On God's cold hill, there is a holy height,
Where splendid fires descend to man at night:
On the cold traveller falls the livening breath,
To raise him high in life, and proud in death.

Epigram

Laying aside his Bow and Torch, a Whip
Severe Love took, and at his side a Scrip;
Then on the patient Oxen doth impose
A Yoak, and in the fertile Furrow sows:
And looking up, good weather Jove , or Thou
(Saith he) Europa's Bull shalt draw my plow.

Horses plainly are descry'd
By the Mark upon their side:
Parthians are distinguished
By the Miters on their Head:
But from all Men else a Lover
I can easily discover,
For upon his easie Breast
Love his Brand-Mark hath imprest.

When I come to the end of the land,
I find the sea,
With edges of cliff and breadths of sand
To pleasure me.

When I raise my town-tired eyes
There is blue and white,
Or kings and castles of stormy skies,
Or joy of night.

When I weary of all I see
And tire even of space,
I hold your love in memory,
And your dear face.

Why is there healing in her love?
Her mind is clear as streams that flow
Down rock-steps to a vale below,
Bearing on spray the Sun's bright bow,
And singing as they move.

I dreamed that all your being was a cup,
Shaped like the hands of an adoring priest.
I dreamed that loving had transposed my blood to wine.
I scented the wine with my low-whispered songs,
So the red liquor was Love's self —

Then with an ecstasy I spilled myself into the cup.

My soul was driven from my body
And waited watching, like pearl-coloured flame;
That flame was prayer,
I prayed you might contain me.

If the arching fulness of the cup be broken,
If Love shall overflow the cup
And fall like blood from a wound,

When I meet you, I greet you with a stare;
Like a poor shy child at a fair.
I will not let you love me — yet am I weak.
I love you so intensely that I cannot speak.
When you are gone, I stand apart,
And whisper to your image in my heart.

I wish no more that beauty walked in light,
Utterly naked to the daily sight.
O rather let some simple dress
Shelter my Woman's loveliness.
So is her beauty love's high prize,
Which I discover with adoring eyes.