 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
BITTER-SWEET.
With roses, lilies, and the eglantine,
Love filled our hands; and from the grapes that hung
Above his garden, quick with scent and song,
He pressed a sweet and sleep-begetting wine;
And melody intense, remote, divine,
For our delight from his own harp he wrung:
And when sense failed, so many sweets among,
And very passion threatened to decline,
Love filled our hands; and from the grapes that hung
Above his garden, quick with scent and song,
He pressed a sweet and sleep-begetting wine;
And melody intense, remote, divine,
For our delight from his own harp he wrung:
And when sense failed, so many sweets among,
And very passion threatened to decline,
He plucked for us the sharp and bitter brier,
Wherewith our aching brows he garlanded,
And made a sudden discord with his lyre.
Then with new color lips and cheeks grew red,
And pain was straight converted to desire;
“For thus my bitter turns to sweet,” Love said.
Wherewith our aching brows he garlanded,
And made a sudden discord with his lyre.
Then with new color lips and cheeks grew red,
And pain was straight converted to desire;
“For thus my bitter turns to sweet,” Love said.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |