Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/157

 I tell you over word by word. She, sitting edgewise on her bed, Holding her feet, said thus. The third, A sweeter thing than these, I said.

God, that makes time and ruins it And alters not, abiding God, Changed with disease her body sweet, The body of love wherein she abode.

Love is more sweet and comelier Than a dove's throat strained out to sing. All they spat out and cursed at her And cast her forth for a base thing.

They cursed her, seeing how God had wrought This curse to plague her, a curse of his. Fools were they surely, seeing not How sweeter than all sweet she is.

He that had held her by the hair, With kissing lips blinding her eyes, Felt her bright bosom, strained and bare, Sigh under him, with short mad cries

Out of her throat and sobbing mouth And body broken up with love, With sweet hot tears his lips were loth Her own should taste the savour of,