To burn my little hour away!
I would I were a gold jewèl
To fleck my lady’s soft lean throat,
Where Love, like Death, lies throned to swell
A strange and tremulous note
Of yearning vague and void and vain,
Delight on flame Desire to quell,
And Pleasure fearful of red Pain,
And dreams fall in to sear and stain;
That in the barren blossom of her breath