Since little time is granted here For pride in pain or play, Since blood soon cools before that Fear That makes our prowess clay, If lips to kiss are freely met, Lad, be not proud nor shy; There are no lips where men forget, And undesiring lie. _Caprice_ “I’ll tell him, when he comes,” she said, “Body and baggage, to go, Though the night be darker than my hair, And the ground be hard with snow.” But when he came with his gay black head Thrown back, and his lips apart, She flipped a light hair from his coat, And sobbed against his heart. _Sacrament_ She gave her body for my meat, Her soul to be my wine, And prayed that I be made complete In sunlight and starshine. With such abandoned grace she gave Of all that passion taught her, She never knew her tidal wave Cast bread on stagnant water. _Bread and Wine_ From death of star to new star’s birth, This ache of limb, this throb of head, This sweaty shop, this smell of earth, For this we pray, “Give daily bread.” Then tenuous with dreams the night, The feel of soft brown hands in mine, Strength from your lips for one more fight: Bread’s not so dry when dipped in wine. _Spring Reminiscence_ “My sweet,” you sang, and, “Sweet,” I sang, And sweet we sang together, Glad to be young as the world was young, Two colts too strong for a tether. Shall ever a spring be like that spring, Or apple blossoms as white; Or ever clover smell like the clover We lay upon that night? Shall ever your hand lie in my hand, Pulsing to it, I wonder; Or have the gods, being jealous gods, Envied us our thunder? _Varia_ _Suicide Chant_ I am the seed The Sower sowed; I am the deed His hand bestowed Upon the world. Censure me not If a rank weed flood The garden plot, Instead of a bud To be unfurled. Bridle your blame If the deed prove less Than the bruited fame With which it came From nothingness. The seed of a weed Cannot be flowered, Nor a hero’s deed Spring from a coward. Pull up the weed; Bring plow and mower; Then fetch new seed For the hand of the Sower. _She of the Dancing Feet Sings_ (_To Ottie Graham_) “And what would I do in heaven, pray, Me with my dancing feet, And limbs like apple boughs that sway When the gusty rain winds beat? And how would I thrive in a perfect place Where dancing would be sin, With not a man to love my face, Nor an arm to hold me in? The seraphs and the cherubim Would be too proud to bend To sing the faery tunes that brim My heart from end to end. The wistful angels down in hell Will smile to see my face, And understand, because they fell From that all-perfect place.” _Judas Iscariot_