Yea, love, I see; it is not love but fear. Nay, sweet, it is not fear but love, I know; Or wherefore should thy body's blossom blow So sweetly, or thine eyelids leave so clear Thy gracious eyes that never made a tear-- Though for their love our tears like blood should flow, Though love and life and death should come and go, So dreadful, so desirable, so dear? Yea, sweet, I know; I saw in what swift wise Beneath the woman's and the water's kiss Thy moist limbs melted into Salmacis, And the large light turned tender in thine eyes, And all thy boy's breath softened into sighs; But Love being blind, how should he know of this? _Au Musée du Louvre, Mars 1863._ FRAGOLETTA O Love! what shall be said of thee? The son of grief begot by joy? Being sightless, wilt thou see? Being sexless, wilt thou be Maiden or boy? I dreamed of strange lips yesterday And cheeks wherein the ambiguous blood Was like a rose's--yea, A rose's when it lay Within the bud. What fields have bred thee, or what groves Concealed thee, O mysterious flower, O double rose of Love's, With leaves that lure the doves From bud to bower? I dare not kiss it, lest my lip Press harder than an indrawn breath, And all the sweet life slip Forth, and the sweet leaves drip, Bloodlike, in death. O sole desire of my delight! O sole delight of my desire! Mine eyelids and eyesight Feed on thee day and night Like lips of fire. Lean back thy throat of carven pearl, Let thy mouth murmur like the dove's; Say, Venus hath no girl, No front of female curl, Among her Loves. Thy sweet low bosom, thy close hair, Thy strait soft flanks and slenderer feet, Thy virginal strange air, Are these not over fair For Love to greet? How should he greet thee? what new name, Fit to move all men's hearts, could move Thee, deaf to love or shame, Love's sister, by the same Mother as Love? Ah sweet, the maiden's mouth is cold, Her breast-blossoms are simply red, Her hair mere brown or gold, Fold over simple fold Binding her head. Thy mouth is made of fire and wine, Thy barren bosom takes my kiss And turns my soul to thine And turns thy lip to mine, And mine it is. Thou hast a serpent in thine hair, In all the curls that close and cling; And ah, thy breast-flower! Ah love, thy mouth too fair To kiss and sting! Cleave to me, love me, kiss mine eyes, Satiate thy lips with loving me; Nay, for thou shalt not rise; Lie still as Love that dies For love of thee. Mine arms are close about thine head, My lips are fervent on thy face, And where my kiss hath fed Thy flower-like blood leaps red To the kissed place. O bitterness of things too sweet! O broken singing of the dove! Love's wings are over fleet, And like the panther's feet The feet of Love. RONDEL