Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/317

 My one gold gift, if dreams be sharp and sore Shall not the waking time increase much more With taste and sound, sweet eyesight or sweet scent? Has any heat too hard and insolent Burnt bare the tender married leaves, undone The maiden grass shut under from the sun? Where in this world is room enough for pain?" The feverish finger of love had touched again Her lips with happier blood; the pain lay meek In her fair face, nor altered lip nor cheek With pallor or with pulse; but in her mouth Love thirsted as a man wayfaring doth, Making it humble as weak hunger is. She lay close to him, bade do this and this, Say that, sing thus: then almost weeping-ripe Crouched, then laughed low. As one that fain would wipe The old record out of old things done and dead, She rose, she heaved her hands up, and waxed red For wilful heart and blameless fear of blame; Saying "Though my wits be weak, this is no shame For a poor maid whom love so punisheth With heats of hesitation and stopped breath That with my dreams I live yet heavily For pure sad heart and faith's humility. Now be not wroth and I will show you this. "Methought our lips upon their second kiss Met in this place, and a fair day we had And fair soft leaves that waxed and were not sad