Red is the flower of thy mouth
As the wine that the flagon spatters,
And the heart of the windy south
Is meshed in thy hair today.
There is little of strength or worth
To tell of our love--what matters?
Let us talk with the warm old earth
And argue our sins away.
The cup of thy parted lips
Is a calyx of crimson petals
A god in his fancy strips
From a stalk that the Graces tend.
I would rather thy beauty's sight
Than a mountain of precious metals--
Yet they say that our love is light,
And that shame is our passion's end!
Warm is the pulse of thy breast,
And the wraith that I served is vanished--
The love that I dreamed the best
Ere I found thee, dear, in the sun.
'Twas a vision of ceaseless tears
And a heart that was true, though banished
To a twilight of lonely years
On a quest that could ne'er be won--
And I dreamed o'er-sad, till the kiss
Of the tips of thy petal-fingers
Woke me at last to the bliss
Thou keepest this day for me.
Oh, the morrow of pain and dole
Is naught while the sunlight lingers,
And today I would risk my soul
For that flower-red mouth of thee!