 | Lays of France |  |
Are ye mere flowers to love again
With each fresh summer, knowing not which
Hath had the ripest of your bloom?—
Nay, but, for you, there is a doom
For ever making in the fair
Unalterable world above
The blue, unknown to your new love,
Irrevocable in your own
Sweet word:—O women, have a care
What if two come to claim your hair
Of God?—what if two shall have thrown
Their strong arms round your body, quite
Belonging with an equal right
To each for ever?
With each fresh summer, knowing not which
Hath had the ripest of your bloom?—
Nay, but, for you, there is a doom
For ever making in the fair
Unalterable world above
The blue, unknown to your new love,
Irrevocable in your own
111
What if two come to claim your hair
Of God?—what if two shall have thrown
Their strong arms round your body, quite
Belonging with an equal right
To each for ever?
| Lays of France | |