Though the flow'r may bloom ere long
    and night recede unto the dawn,
so yet may love's embrace grow fond
    and still be spoilt upon the wan.
Brave are you and wield your smile:
    A cudgel, tool, a keen-edged blade.
You are not wan, love is not spoilt;
    thus I be slain and love not fade.
Have I any need for flow'rs?
    For nights, for dawns, for words or breath?
With so keen and fond a blade,
    There's naught to fear in life or death.
        So slay, then slay! For now, I care not how,
        I need for naught but that which love allow.

Though every climax approach a denouement
And every dawn a night,
Every moment worth sharing
May be worth stealing.
    Were it with you,
    Delay, then, the morn.

When every touch lingers as if forever
And yet seems to pass too soon,
Hearts reach out to hearts,
To seek, to aim, to keep.
    Were it with you,
    Delay, then, the morn.

Surely it's cruelty that need begets need begets need,
And yet need may bring pleasure.
Pleasure may hurt, ache, burn,
May steal hours of night.
    Were it with you,
    Delay, then, the morn.

I reach for the ewer of water,
I hope to quench the heat.
I beg for yet another serving,
I hope to fill my need.

The water -- cool -- cools not
Without thy merry presence.
The food fills, passes, is gone --
Yet leaves me empty, yearning.

Though the heart may quicken --
Though the tongue may lap --
I shall sup no greater meal
Than thy gift entrancing.

On reading letters late received,
I felt within: the fox --
Yelping, yowling now, crying needfully --
Myself, a craving beast.

You find me at a disadvantage --
Panting and aswish --
Would that distance be traversed as easily
As hearts t'wards yearning hearts!

A rose, single, now blooming
    may indeed bless the stem,
yet are not roses clipp'd and shown?
    Undoubted 'tis a blessing to them
who receive such a gift!
    Yet now unmade is the flow'r
which adorns thy mantle with its grace
    and withers, however slowly, by the hour,
        until 'tis faded to nothing and dust,
        though some scent remain forever amidst the must.

A rose, single, now blooming
    is perhaps best left on the stem,
its beauty to be admired amidst the growth.
    Surely 'tis better to long for that gem,
than witness beauty wilt and dry!
    Yet now one must long indeed, must burn,
Must yearn forever for that grace.
    To watch that growth, to explore stem's turn,
        day by day would destroy, weakening one by the hour,
        A rose, single, now blooming, forever holds all pow'r.