POEMS
THE NEW ASPASIA.
If I have given myself to you and you,
And if these pale hands are not virginal,
Nor these bright lips beneath your own lips true,
What matters it? I do not stand nor fall
By your old foolish judgments of desire:
If this were Helen's way it is not mine;
I bring you beauty, but no Troys to fire:
The cup I hold brims not with Borgia's wine.
You, so soon snared of sudden brows and breasts,
Lightly you think upon these lips, this hair,
My thoughts are kinder: you are pity's guests:
Compassion's bed you share.
And if these pale hands are not virginal,
Nor these bright lips beneath your own lips true,
What matters it? I do not stand nor fall
By your old foolish judgments of desire:
If this were Helen's way it is not mine;
I bring you beauty, but no Troys to fire:
The cup I hold brims not with Borgia's wine.
You, so soon snared of sudden brows and breasts,
Lightly you think upon these lips, this hair,
My thoughts are kinder: you are pity's guests:
Compassion's bed you share.
It was not lust delivered me to you;
I gave my wondering mouth for pity's sake,
For your strange, sighing lips I did but break
Many times this bread, and poured this wine anew.
My body's woven sweetness and kindling hair
Were given for heal of hurts unknown of me,
For something I could slake but could not share.
Sudden and rough and cruel I let you be,
I gave my wondering mouth for pity's sake,
For your strange, sighing lips I did but break
Many times this bread, and poured this wine anew.
My body's woven sweetness and kindling hair
Were given for heal of hurts unknown of me,
For something I could slake but could not share.
Sudden and rough and cruel I let you be,
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