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