Page:An epic of women and other poems (IA epicofwomenother00osha).pdf/51

 O seems there not beneath each rose A face?—the blush comes burning through; And eyes my heart already knows Are filling themselves from the blue, Above the world; and One, whose hair Holds all my sun, is coming, fair, And must bring heaven if all be true:

And now I have face, hair, and eyes; And lo, the Woman that these make Is more than flower, and sun, and skies! Her slender fingers seem to take My whole fair life, as 'twere a bowl, Wherein she pours me forth her soul, And bids me drink it for her sake.

Methinks the world becomes an isle; And there—immortal, as it seems— I gaze upon her face, whose smile Flows round the world in golden streams: Ah, Death is digging for me deep, Lest some day I should need to sleep And solace me with other dreams!