(_For M. E. V._)
I shall not, dead, miss love’s sublimities,
The pageantry, the passion, and the smart,
But only this, the sweet proximities
Of flesh to flesh, of heart-beat to the heart.
I shall not, dead, remember anything,
The sun, the moon, the waters, and the lands,
The wild adventure of my journeying:
Only the weary flutter of white hands.
Let earth the maggot feed upon my brain,
Let me forget the rime, the rune, the rose,
If but this vision to the end remain:
A little body, birdlike, nestling close.
Of all God’s deeds the foulest deed is this:
Though my heart aches, though all my manhood squirms,
When I am dead, your touch, your mouth, your kiss
Dear Love, will seem no sweeter than the worm’s.
For hearts and worms and lovers’ ecstasy
To life’s Mad Master, on invention bent,
Are but the ashes of his alchemy
That he discards in his experiment.
There is no lodestar in this lonely sea,
No ghost of any harbor for my quest,
Save Love’s eyes shining tenderly,
Save for the respite of your breast,
And--maybe--rest.