Page:Poems and Baudelaire Flowers.djvu/20

16  Are other lips discreeter?
 * Are other eyes demurer?

I know no heart is sweeter,
 * The faith of none is surer.

And, since no love’s more pure than yours,
 * What boots whose brow is purer?

Are they not fond who think
 * This love and this love’s praise

To draw in waning ink,
 * The body’s passing phase;

Is it thus that you and I should waste
 * The unreturning days?

When earth’s alive with Spring
 * And hearts nigh break with bliss,

Should I stand forth and sing
 * Praises as vain as this?

Nay, Love is its own praise, and speaks
 * Itself in every kiss.