  As a rose bends in rain Your face is bowed into mine arms, Spilling its golden drops there: And the fragrance of wet roses Is in my nostrils, And the long bright tendrils of your hair Upon me. Under my hand you tremble as a reed When wind ruffles the water; Such great joy floweth beneath my fingers, And the rain passes, and the wind strews The ripples with crimson petals Bright as blood upon their polished silver. But my delight of you Fragrant and humid in mine arms, Of a white body convulsive, shaken With the soul’s passion; lips fierce, eager, To hide it in a silence, a sleep, Among cherishing dews, being music: Nor the mere lute, nor the singer, But the shaped passion of a god Embodied in us, Beyond us, eternal, exultant. |
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