Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/59

It will grow not again, it is ruined at root,
The bloodlike blossom, the dull red fruit;
Though the heart yet sickens, the lips yet smart,
⁠With sullen savour of poisonous pain.

I have given no man of my fruit to eat;
⁠I trod the grapes, I have drunken the wine.
Had you eaten and drunken and found it sweet,
⁠This wild new growth of the corn and vine,
This wine and bread without lees or leaven,
We had grown as gods, as the gods in heaven,
Souls fair to look upon, goodly to greet,
⁠One splendid spirit, your soul and mine.

In the change of years, in the coil of things,
⁠In the clamour and rumour of life to be,
We, drinking love at the furthest springs,
⁠Covered with love as a covering tree,
We had grown as gods, as the gods above,
Filled from the heart to the lips with love,
Held fast in his hands, clothed warm with his wings,
⁠O love, my love, had you loved but me!

We had stood as the sure stars stand, and moved
⁠As the moon moves, loving the world; and seen
Grief collapse as a thing disproved,
⁠Death consume as a thing unclean.
Twain halves of a perfect heart, made fast
Soul to soul while the years fell past;