If I had died last year when Death
And I were at finger-tips, till Life
Slipping between blew her warm breath
Into my heart again and veins,
And opened my eyes and nulled my pains —
If I had died where would you be?
You so passionate, yet quick
To escape from passion's mastery,
When clasping and kiss and touch are gone,
And days and space are between us drawn?
Where would you be? My arms you chose —
Arms too ready to seize and sin —
And kept no burning forbiddance in those
Still eyes of yours, or else, I think...
No! I unsay it! No!... So drink.
Drink! the last glass! And then... “My thought?”
It is that when we've reached the last
Of pleasure we are like two who've fought,
Who have no common love but love
Of fighting — so does our passion prove!
For it is only passion — such!
Tho clasping and kiss and touch were love,
A little — and sometimes, maybe, much,
When soul and heaven looked far away,
And flesh seemed only flesh — and clay.
But, it is ended! So, drink!... How
You've ruined me, as I have you!
All that you might have been! and — now!
All that I was, until...‘ Tis clear
I should have died in Spring last year.