Page:Poems and Baudelaire Flowers.djvu/16

12 Of this you and this shrine of yours
 * That I cannot tell from you,

This complicate thing that lures
 * My being and thrills me through

With hopes and longings and lusts,
 * Tumults of body and mind,

A medley of pulls and thrusts
 * Unnumbered and undefined.

A medley they are, but I learn them
 * On the summits of thought and dream

As parts of a whole, and discern them
 * One Love though many they seem:

The Love that gloats on the swell
 * Of your breast all ripe for its fang,

The Love that would suffer a hell
 * To save you a passing pang,

The Love with throb and sting
 * At whose waking my loins are stirred,

The Love that would make me fling
 * From a cliff-top at your word

On a sudden I break my thought
 * With a little laugh, and turn

As a dutiful lover ought
 * To fanning your cheeks that burn,

And smoothing your tangled hair
 * From your forehead, strand by strand,

With such a caressing care
 * That you needs must draw back my hand