University of Virginia Library

BLOOD-DROPS.

To My Beauty.

Rosy petals, red as blood,
Towards my lady's sweet abode,
In a trembling hand I bring—
Piercing all my heart, I sing.
Musically, blood-drops fall,
And I gather......gather......all,
Placing them within a cup,
That therein my sweet may sup,
And be so fulfilled of me,
In a vision verily.
Gleams of roses, passing red,
I bestow around her bed,
Gleams of roses, passing fair,
Fragrant as with summer air,
Dipped in crimson, grand attire,
Face-flushed with poetic fire,
Beautiful from suffering—
These flowers in my hand I bring;
Red they are, I know it well,
Blood-red, as from flaming hell,
Lurid, awfully intense
With some inner crimson sense,
Bright with things I may not speak,
Lest I pain your tender cheek;
Lady, lay your hand on these,
Lily-fingers, if you please,
And it may be they shall bloom
As white roses from their tomb
Of concentred suffering;
As a glad bard I shall sing,
And my Book shall no more be
Blood-drops, of a verity,
Rather tears of perfect joy,
White flowers gathered from a boy,
Petals purely white, instead
Of those awful blossoms red,
And, for beads of sanguine hue,
Only sweet tears shed by you,
Trickling from the eyes of green,
Sweetest colour ever seen;
With whose worship I began
Love that raised me to a man,
Sacred Love, that since pursued
Me through many a recreant mood—
Holy Love, that would not let
My weak, cowardly heart forget—
Perfect Love, that did redeem
Life from many a sinful dream—
Happy Love, that brings me here,
As of old a suppliant, dear—
Joyous Love, that draws me back
To the unforgotten track—
Faithful Love, that still shall last
When our mortal years are past,
When the heavens are clear in view,
And the heavenly mountains blue
Gleam upon us—love that ends
Not, but surely, sweetly, blends
With the fast-approaching sea
Of a white eternity.