I
I do not even scorn your lovers—
They clasped an image of you, a cloud,
Not the whole life of you that's mine.
II
I do not even pity my mistresses—
Such a poor shadow of desire
Their half-warm passion drew from me.
III
You are a delicate Arab mare
For whom there is but one rider;
I am a sea that takes joyfully
Only one straight ship upon my breast.
IV
Look, like a dark princess whose beauty
Many have sung, you wear me
The one jewel that is warmed by your breast.
V
See, as a soldier wearying of fighting
Turns for peace to some golden city,
So do I enter you, beloved.
VI
The scarlet that stains your lips and breast-points—
Let it be my blood that dyes them,
My very blood so gladly yielded.
[83]
