For all your gestures, for your gray-blue eyes
And Irish mouth, and hair that makes you child,
When shaken out at evening; for your mirth
And your quick pity, and your mother's breast;
For the great tenderness that you have given
And the rich dreams through purple-flowing night,
The holy lull of effort and the peace
Of a deep love; because of all these things,
Wherever I should be,— beyond what seas
Of an enchanted music, on what isles,
I know not, of a strange irradiance,
In dream or life or death,— dissatisfied
With splendor or white mystery, my heart
Would break — my heart would break — never to hear
Your tones again or feel your hair again
Beneath my lips, or see your lifted eyes
Brimming with all the secrets of the stars!