Page:An epic of women and other poems (IA epicofwomenother00osha).pdf/227

 O bosom of my mother Heaven, Was not I purer than the dew? Was not my spirit of the leaven Of your own high eternal blue Unspotted by one part of earth? O, wherefore this dull flesh that wraps My sense in shame,—O, why this birth Among hard human sights and mirth! Hear now, and draw me back to you. Call to me through the silent gaps In some great tempest cloud above, Steal me when, gasping in the laps Of these that sicken me of love, I lie and think of my lost bliss: O can you not in one long kiss Absorb my spirit back to you?

But thou, Apollo, who prevailest! Hast thou made me thine envy? choosing, Out of all creatures, me the frailest; Me the most piteous, for the loosing