ROSA IGNOTA
O love, my love; I make my songs while waiting,
My lips in missing thine but idly prating.
(vy)
For all the glowing panoply of earth
The wingéd god must stand responsible;
The mavis’ song, the roses’ scent, the mirth
Of spring, the spirit’s passion, aping hell.
So I, knowing my love, am girded round
With all the armour of the wanton spring
And her pagan festivals; the swelling ground,
The ripe blue sky, the ever-moving wing
Of birth, have lent me glamour of desire,
And I will go as a god, to mould afresh
With my most inner and supernal fire
A veil for a soul, a veil of soft, white flesh;
Yea! I will mould from out the universe
A new blind angel, with a spirit’s curse.
(v)
The hour of love is passed; we lie asleep
Dreaming of love; we wake to love again.
Upon my heart you hide your eyes and weep,
And so I understand, and share your pain.
And when you ask of love I will not speak,
But crush your lips for only answering;
I feel your hot breath on my neck and cheek,
And crush you to my breast, a tender thing.