Page:Early poems of William Morris.djvu/159

 Your face must hurt me always; pray you now,

Doth it not hurt you too? seemeth some pain

To hold you always, pain to hold your brow

So smooth, unwrinkled ever; yea again,

Your long eyes where the lids seem like to drop,

Would you not, lady, were they shut fast, feel

Far merrier? there so high they will not stop,

They are most sly to glide forth and to steal

Into my heart; I kiss their soft lids there,

And in green gardens scarce can stop my lips

From wandering on your face, but that your hair

Falls down and tangles me, back my face slips.

Or say your mouth—I saw you drink red wine

Once at a feast; how slowly it sank in,

As though you fear'd that some wild fate might twine

Within that cup, and slay you for a sin.

And when you talk your lips do arch and move

In such wise that a language new I know

Besides their sound; they quiver, too, with love

When you are standing silent; know this, too,

I saw you kissing once, like a curved sword

That bites with all its edge, did your lips lie,

Curled gently, slowly, long time could afford

For caught-up breathings; like a dying sigh

They gather'd up their lines and went away,

And still kept twitching with a sort of smile,

As likely to be weeping presently,—

Your hands too—how I watch'd them all the while!