Whym Chow: Flame of Love :: :: University of Virginia Library

Loved Confessionals there are
Not for penitence, for guilt;
But for happiness or jar.
Some will find one in the quilt
Of a turf of roots and flowers,
With the face upon the mesh
Dew hath tempered many hours,
Till the grass smells washed and fresh;
And the swell against the face,
And the cold against the eyes
Quieten grief by kind embrace,
Give to rapture new surprise.

Some will find one in the sand,
Face upon the golden store
Billows lately overspanned
Till their ebbing left the floor—
Bed of warm and tranquil grain,
Only broken by the chip
Of a white shell or the pain
Of a pebble 'gainst the lip;
There the sound of what hath been
Infinite upon the spot
Haunts it, though withdrawn unseen—
Sound that moves, but goeth not.

Others will confess to sweet
Softness of a breast and lay
Face to warmth of living heat,
Sweeter than the warmest day;
Where beneath the softness heaves
Tide that never is withdrawn;
Where the heart that fiercely grieves,
Rocking, may no longer mourn—
Smooth as rocking bird at sea;
Where for joy a throb is found,
Pulse of mortal sympathy,
Fountain of a deep profound,

Others to their pillow tell
All that in their blood they feel;
On the downy dip and swell
Hide their faces with appeal
To a gentleness of curve
Slumber sculptures for her need,
Where from slumber's long reserve
Breaks, as fume from drowsy weed,
Secret of a powerful ease,
And a mildness breathed by dreams
That at morning-time would please,
Yea, would sun what softly seems.

Pillow, turf, nor sand, nor breast
As confessional I sought:
Nay, but down my face was pressed
In thy wondrous fur, enwrought
Of the gilded motes of sun,
And the tongues of ruddy fire,
And the wool that Jason won
When—his utmost of desire—
He had raped his Golden Fleece:
There I hid my joys and woes,
There my solitude would cease,
There my thoughts their travel close.

Dearer would that fur beguile
Than the pillow's tenderest fold;
Deeper than the turf, its pile,
Warmer and more manifold
In its lulling magic spell
Than the seashore's golden hum;
Sweeter of its yielded balm,
Yea, even sweeter than to come
To a human breast for calm,
Since no breast could have such sole
Comfort of itself to yield,
No such absolution whole—
Sorrow buried, joy revealed.