 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
WHICH IS IT, LOVE?
Which is it, Love, enthralls me more to-night,
Quickening the pulses' throb and the heart's beat,—
The memory of joy so subtly sweet
It wakes at thought, as when one plays aright
Some air to which Love's tones were wont to plight
The dearest singing words, till with the heat
Of passionate remembrance he can cheat
The heart that longs so even in Death's despite?
Quickening the pulses' throb and the heart's beat,—
The memory of joy so subtly sweet
It wakes at thought, as when one plays aright
Some air to which Love's tones were wont to plight
The dearest singing words, till with the heat
Of passionate remembrance he can cheat
The heart that longs so even in Death's despite?
Or is it expectation of fresh bliss,—
That bliss which Memory can so poorly feign,
Deep joy of the anticipated kiss
Quickening the jubilant blood in every vein?
Thought of past joy, or joy to come again;
Confused by Love, I know not which it is.
That bliss which Memory can so poorly feign,
Deep joy of the anticipated kiss
Quickening the jubilant blood in every vein?
Thought of past joy, or joy to come again;
Confused by Love, I know not which it is.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |