Page:An epic of women and other poems (IA epicofwomenother00osha).pdf/51

O seems there not beneath each rose
  A face?—the blush comes burning through;
And eyes my heart already knows
  Are filling themselves from the blue,
Above the world; and One, whose hair
Holds all my sun, is coming, fair,
  And must bring heaven if all be true:

And now I have face, hair, and eyes;
  And lo, the Woman that these make
Is more than flower, and sun, and skies!
  Her slender fingers seem to take
My whole fair life, as 'twere a bowl,
Wherein she pours me forth her soul,
  And bids me drink it for her sake.

Methinks the world becomes an isle;
  And there—immortal, as it seems—
I gaze upon her face, whose smile
  Flows round the world in golden streams:
Ah, Death is digging for me deep,
Lest some day I should need to sleep
  And solace me with other dreams!