  If I had died last year when Death And I were at finger-tips, till Life Slipping between blew her warm breath Into my heart again and veins, And opened my eyes and nulled my pains— If I had died where would you be? You so passionate, yet quick To escape from passion's mastery, When clasping and kiss and touch are gone, And days and space are between us drawn? Where would you be? My arms you chose— Arms too ready to seize and sin— And kept no burning forbiddance in those No! I unsay it! No!... So drink. Drink! the last glass! And then ... "My thought?" It is that when we've reached the last Of pleasure we are like two who've fought, Who have no common love but love Of fighting—so does our passion prove! For it is only passion—such! Tho clasping and kiss and touch were love, A little—and sometimes, maybe, much, When soul and heaven looked far away, And flesh seemed only flesh—and clay. But, it is ended! So, drink!... How You've ruined me, as I have you! All that you might have been! and—now! All that I was, until ... 'Tis clear I should have died in Spring last year. |
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