POEMS
Her little lips, more made to kiss
Than to cry bitterly for pain,
Are tremulous as brook-water is,
Or roses after evening rain.
Her neck is like white melilote
Flushing for pleasure of the sun,
The throbbing of the linnet's throat
Is not so sweet to look upon.
As a pomegranate, cut in twain,
White-seeded, is her crimson mouth,
Her cheeks are as the fading stain
Where the peach reddens to the south.
O twining hands! O delicate
White body made for love and pain!
O House of love! O desolate
Pale flower beaten by the rain!
God can bring Winter unto May,
And change the sky to flame and blue,
Or summer corn to gold from grey:
One thing alone He cannot do.
He cannot change my love to hate,
Or make thy face less fair to see,
Though now He knocketh at the gate
With life and death—for you and me.
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