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Red lips are
not so red
As the stained stones kissed by the
English dead.
Kindness of wooed and wooer
Seems
shame to their love pure.
O Love, your eyes lose lure
When I behold eyes blinded in my stead!
Your
slender attitude
Trembles not exquisite like limbs
knife-skewed,
Rolling and rolling there
Where God
seems not to care;
Till the fierce Love they bear
Cramps them in death's extreme decrepitude.
Your
voice sings not so soft, -
Though even as wind
murmuring through raftered loft, -
Your dear voice
is not dear,
Gentle, and evening clear,
As theirs
whom none now hear,
Now earth has stopped their
piteous mouths that coughed.
Heart, you were
never hot,
Nor large, nor full like hearts made great
with shot;
And though your hand be pale,
Paler are
all which trail
Your cross through flame and hail:
Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not.
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