 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
THE ONE GIFT.
And can I give thee nothing, oh, my queen?
Have I no gifts to cast down at thy feet,—
No crown which for thy wearing might be meet?
Yet, when thy hand my hands I take between,
When round my neck thine arms encircling lean,
When 'neath thy quickening kiss, prolonged and sweet,
My heart, on fire, seems audibly to beat,
And yearn to thine so distant and serene,
Have I no gifts to cast down at thy feet,—
No crown which for thy wearing might be meet?
Yet, when thy hand my hands I take between,
When round my neck thine arms encircling lean,
When 'neath thy quickening kiss, prolonged and sweet,
My heart, on fire, seems audibly to beat,
And yearn to thine so distant and serene,
I feel that it is better as it is;
Better that all the glory should be thine,
Than I, indeed, should give thee bliss for bliss.
While things are thus, one gift may yet be mine;
But couldst thou love me once as I love thee,
Giftless indeed, belovèd, I should be.
Better that all the glory should be thine,
Than I, indeed, should give thee bliss for bliss.
While things are thus, one gift may yet be mine;
But couldst thou love me once as I love thee,
Giftless indeed, belovèd, I should be.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |