I would that my words were as my kisses.
I would that my words her life might fill—
Be to her earth, and air, and skies.
I would that my words were husht and still—
Lost in the light of her eyes.
XVIII—SONG
The birds were singing, the skies were gay;
I looked from the window on meadow and wood,
On green, green grass that the sun made white;
Beyond the river the mountain stood—
Blue was the mountain, the river was bright;
I looked on the land and it was not good,
For my own dear Love she had flown away.
XIX—THISTLE-DOWN
Fly, thistle-down, fly
From my lips to the lips that I love!
Fly through the morning light,
Flee through the shadowy night,
Over the sea and the land,
Quick as the lark
Through twilight and dark,
Through lightning and thunder;
Till no longer asunder
We stand;
For thy touch like the lips of her lover
Moves her being to mine—
We are one in a swoon divine!
Fly, thistle-down, fly
From my lips to the lips that I love!
