Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/31



or waking is it? for her neck, Kissed over close, wears yet a purple speck Wherein the pained blood falters and goes out; Soft, and stung softly—fairer for a fleck.

But though my lips shut sucking on the place, There is no vein at work upon her face; Her eyelids are so peaceable, no doubt Deep sleep has warmed her blood through all its ways.

Lo, this is she that was the world's delight; The old grey years were parcels of her might; The strewings of the ways wherein she trod Were the twain seasons of the day and night.

Lo, she was thus when her clear limbs enticed All lips that now grow sad with kissing Christ, Stained with blood fallen from the feet of God, The feet and hands whereat our souls were priced.