 | The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland |  |
3
Woman
Four pomegranates grow for me,
On my true love's silver tree.
On my true love's silver tree.
One I have tasted, and my mouth
Is filled with fragrance of the South;
Is filled with fragrance of the South;
One, which burns with holy red,
He shall give me when we wed;
He shall give me when we wed;
The third from its branch shall be torn
When our little son is born;
When our little son is born;
The fourth, which is most delicate,
Kinder than Love, sharper than Fate,
Kinder than Love, sharper than Fate,
Fairer than fruit of Samarkand,
You shall put in my dead hand.
You shall put in my dead hand.
| The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland | |