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To the end of the trail

Hovey, Richard (1864-1900)

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[I]
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II
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III
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V.
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VI
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VII

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HURT ME

Hurt me! For your dear sake I could be driven
With whips of scorpions, and smile at Fate.
Hurt me! It greatens me—it greatens even
The love I have that is already great.
If you were always dear and sweet and true,
And came to me with kisses and delight,
How could I show the love I have for you,
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How could that love attain its highest height?
Hurt me, and spare not! I am yours for joy,
And yours a hundred fold, then, for despair.
I would not change my rack for any toy
That sleek Antinous tosses in the air.
Ay, hurt me! For your sake I will endure
To make my pain the page to your amour.
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