White Stains

112 ‘ • Á¼±ÆÁ¿´¯Ä¿Å ’ O½±Á My hot blood turns to fire, Seeing nor maid nor man. Not maid, not man—the breast Like palaces of gold, Yet where my lips caressed, In the wild dove’s wild nest A dove too soft to hold. No dove that Hylas knew, No dove that Sappho kissed, Nor in wide Heaven there grew This child of stranger dew Than God’s good spirit wist. Yet his wings bare him high, Divine beyond control, And, like for love to die, I felt his arrow fly Within my very soul. Ah Love ! the ambiguous kiss, Not man’s nor woman’s touch, In that ecstatic bliss— Not hell’s heat, as I wis, Had warmed us overmuch.