The passion of my thought I have given you,
Striving towards your passion, nevertheless,
The clover leaves are deepening to the dew,
And I am still unsatisfied, untaught.
You lie guarded in mystery, you go
Into your night, and leave your lover naught.
Would I were Titan with immeasurable thews
To hold you trembling, lover of mine, and know
To the full the secret savour that you use
Now to my tormenting. I would drain
Your beauty to the last sharp glory of it;
You should work mightily through me, blood and brain.
Your heart in my heart’s mastery should burn,
And you before my swift and arrogant wit
Should be no longer proudly taciturn.
You should bend back astonished at my kiss,
Your wisdom should be armourer to my pride,
And you, subdued, should yet be glad of this.
The joys of great heroic lovers dead
Should seem but market-gossiping beside
The annunciation of our bridal bed.
And now, my lover earth, I am a leaf,
A wave of light, a bird’s note, a blade sprung
Towards the oblivion of the sickled sheaf;
A mere mote driven against your royal ease,
A tattered eager traveller among
The myriads beating on your sanctuaries.
I have no strength to crush you to my will,
Your beauty is invulnerably zoned,
Yet I, your undefeated lover still,