Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/112



O Love! what shall be said of thee? The son of grief begot by joy? Being sightless, wilt thou see? Being sexless, wilt thou be Maiden or boy?

I dreamed of strange lips yesterday And cheeks wherein the ambiguous blood Was like a rose's—yea, A rose's when it lay Within the bud.

What fields have bred thee, or what groves Concealed thee, O mysterious flower, O double rose of Love's, With leaves that lure the doves From bud to bower?

I dare not kiss it, lest my lip Press harder than an indrawn breath, And all the sweet life slip Forth, and the sweet leaves drip, Bloodlike, in death.