Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/316

 Their lips were no more sweet than daily breath: The year was plagued with instances of death. So fell it, these were sitting in cool grass With leaves about, and many a bird there was Where the green shadow thickliest impleached Soft fruit and writhen spray and blossom bleached Dry in the sun or washed with rains to white: Her girdle was pure silk, the bosom bright With purple as purple water and gold wrought in. One branch had touched with dusk her lips and chin, Made violet of the throat, abashed with shade The breast's bright plaited work: but nothing frayed The sun's large kiss on the luxurious hair. Her beauty was new colour to the air And music to the silent many birds. Love was an-hungred for some perfect words To praise her with; but only her low name "Andrevuola" came thrice, and thrice put shame In her clear cheek, so fruitful with new red That for pure love straightway shame's self was dead. Then with lids gathered as who late had wept She began saying: "I have so little slept My lids drowse now against the very sun; Yea, the brain aching with a dream begun Beats like a fitful blood; kiss but both brows, And you shall pluck my thoughts grown dangerous Almost away." He said thus, kissing them: "O sole sweet thing that God is glad to name,