I never asked you to be perfect--did I?-- Though often I've called you sweet, in the invasion Of mastering love. I never prayed that you Might stand, unsoiled, angelic and inhuman, Pointing the way toward Sainthood like a sign-post. Oh yes, I know the way to heaven was easy. We found the little kingdom of our passion That all can share who walk the road of lovers. In wild and secret happiness we stumbled; And gods and demons clamoured in our senses. But I've grown thoughtful now. And you have lost Your early-morning freshness of surprise At being so utterly mine: you've learned to fear The gloomy, stricken places in my soul, And the occasional ghosts that haunt my gaze. You made me glad; and I can still return To you, the haven of my lonely pride: But I am sworn to murder those illusions That blossom from desire with desperate beauty: And there shall be no falsehood in our failure; Since, if we loved like beasts, the thing is done, And I'll not hide it, though our heaven be hell. You dream long liturgies of our devotion. Yet, in my heart, I dread our love's destruction. But, should you grow to hate me, I would ask No mercy of your mood: I'd have you stand And look me in the eyes, and laugh, and smite me. Then I should know, at least, that truth endured, Though love had died of wounds. And you could leave me Unvanquished in my atmosphere of devils. VISION I love all things that pass: their briefness is Music that fades on transient silences. Winds, birds, and glittering leaves that flare and fall-- They fling delight across the world; they call To rhythmic-flashing limbs that rove and race... A moment in the dawn for Youth's lit face; A moment's passion, closing on the cry-- 'O Beauty, born of lovely things that die!' TO A CHILDLESS WOMAN You think I cannot understand. Ah, but I do ... I have been wrung with anger and compassion for you. I wonder if you'd loathe my pity, if you knew. But you _shall_ know. I've carried in my heart too long This secret burden. Has not silence wrought _your_ wrong-- Brought you to dumb and wintry middle-age, with grey Unfruitful withering?--Ah, the pitiless things I say... What do you ask your God for, at the end of day, Kneeling beside your bed with bowed and hopeless head? What mercy can He give you?--Dreams of the unborn Children that haunt your soul like loving words unsaid-- Dreams, as a song half-heard through sleep in early morn?