Page:War and Love.djvu/91

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I

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

II

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

III

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.

IV

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

V

See, as a soldier wearying of fighting
Turns for peace to some golden city,
So do I enter you, beloved.

VI

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

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