v.
To lie alone with thee one little hour,
And cling to thee as flower may cling to flower,
With no rough thought beyond the peace thereof,—
To be thy comrade, and to don and doff
The little chain that hangs about thy neck,—
To do all this, my Fair One! and to fleck
Thine eyes with kisses, were a righteous deed,
And not a thing for Love to hold in check.
vi.
Nay, there are dimples which I long to taste,
And there's a girdle fit for Phœbe's waist
Which I would loosen; for I have the skill
To handle lilies; and, by Venus' will,
I'd handle thee, and comfort thee therein.
For love's a sacrament I'd die to win,
And not a toy nor yet a subterfuge;
And not a pitfall for the feet of sin.
vii.
The searching suddenness of thy blue eyes,
The flash thereof, the fire that in them lies,—
All this I yearn to,—all the soul of thee
Shown in thy looks, as though to solace me
In some disaster portion'd out as mine.
Where thou abidest, where thy limbs recline,
Where thou'rt absorb'd in silence or in prayer,
There stands a throne, there gleams a fairy shrine.
viii.
I am, indeed, more subject to thy sway
Than trees are subject, in their tender way,
To earth's great king revolving round the sphere.
I am thy suffering servant all the year;
And when I wake thy name is on my lips,
And when I sleep I feel thy finger-tips
Press'd on mine eyes, as if thy wraith were there,
To save my soul from night's entire eclipse.