For D. S. D.
Thou art wine, Simaetha! When mine eyes drink thee
My blood flames with the golden joy thou art,
Bewildering me, until thy loveliness
Is veiled in its own light: nor know I then
Pure brows, and placid lips and eyes, and hair
With wind and sunlight glorious: but all
Are mingled in one flame. O thou, in me,
Art shrined, as none hath seen thee, as gods live
Whom Time shall not consume; nor rusts thy gold
Ever, so hath my soul enclosed thee round
With its divine air. Yea, thy very life,
Which flows through all the guises of thy moods,
Escaping as they die, and laughs and weeps
And builds again its beauty, have I set
Beyond the jeopards of rough time: yea! all
Thine ivory, imperilled loveliness,
And winey sanguine where the cheek’s curve takes
Light as a bloom upon it, not to pass
So there be God.
Thy praise hath made speech song
And song from lip to lip flies, and black ships
Bear it from sea to sea; and on some quay
Where rise tall masts, and gay booths flank the ways
A tumbler sings it; and an alien air
Trembles with thee, while strange men wonder, dumb
To see thee pass: thou being all my song.