 | Love-Songs |  |
41
A WOMAN'S BLOOM.
“My heart hath suffered, sweet one:” But she brought
The nearer that down-bending, gracious head,
And, though no word articulate was said,
That tender token hath a marvel wrought,
A miracle of healing beyond thought—
For on a lonely grave a rose was red
That moment, and a crimson heart that bled
Was stanched and white, and ceased to suffer aught:—
The nearer that down-bending, gracious head,
And, though no word articulate was said,
That tender token hath a marvel wrought,
A miracle of healing beyond thought—
For on a lonely grave a rose was red
That moment, and a crimson heart that bled
Was stanched and white, and ceased to suffer aught:—
And over me there flowed a wealth of hair,
And that strange endless unforeseen perfume
Was subtle and abundant in the air—
The fire that scorches but doth not consume,
The sweet outpouring of a woman's bloom,
Unutterably wonderful and fair.
And that strange endless unforeseen perfume
Was subtle and abundant in the air—
The fire that scorches but doth not consume,
The sweet outpouring of a woman's bloom,
Unutterably wonderful and fair.
| Love-Songs | |