May

RHYME

What laid, I said,

My being waste?

'Twas your sweet flesh

With its sweet taste,-

Which, like a rose,

Fed with a breath,

And at its full

Belied all death.

It's at springs we drink;

It's bread we eat,

And no fine body,

Head to feet,

Should force all bread

And drink together,

Not be both sun

And hidden weather.

Ah no, it should not;

Let it be.

But once heart's feast

You were to me.

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