LOVE-GIVERS
Who have given me the body's toll
That Helen and Cleopatra paid,
And more?
Who have yielded a field for a blossoming human harvest,
Have walked, clear-eyed,
Into the torture room of pain,
That our love might come to its fruitage?
That Helen and Cleopatra paid,
And more?
Who have yielded a field for a blossoming human harvest,
Have walked, clear-eyed,
Into the torture room of pain,
That our love might come to its fruitage?
I have no Troy to dower you with,
No world, stained with a Roman peace.
I have only myself—
Little enough for the debt I owe you,—
You, whose beauty is minted
As lover, and mother of days to be!
No world, stained with a Roman peace.
I have only myself—
Little enough for the debt I owe you,—
You, whose beauty is minted
As lover, and mother of days to be!
72
