VIII
Make me a roseleaf with your mouth,
And I will waft it through the air
To some far garden of the South,
The herald of our happening there!
Fragrant, caressing, steals the breeze;
Curls into kisses on your lips :—
I know interminable seas,
Winged ardour of the stately ships,
Space of incalculable blue
And years enwreathed in one close crown,
And glimmering laughters echoing you
From reverend shades of bard’s renown :—
Nature alive and glad to hymn
Your beauty, my delight : her God
Weary, his old eyes sad and dim
In his intolerable abode.
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