Song Cycle

Poets make pets of pretty, docile words:
I love smooth words, like gold-enamelled fish
Which circle slowly with a silken swish,
And tender ones, like downy-feathred birds:
Words shy and dappled, deep-eyed deer in herds,
Come to my hand, and playful if I wish,
Or purring softly at a silver dish,
Blue Persian kittens fed on cream and curds.

I love bright words, words up and singing early;
Words that are luminous in the dark, and sing;
Warm lazy words, white cattle under trees;
I love words opalescent, cool, and pearly,
Like midsummer moths, and honied words like bees,
Gilded and sticky, with a little sting. 

O for all soundless Time’s
Deep spells to lock it!
O for a little chime’s
Clear bells to mock it!

O for a calm, to smooth
Your senses by it!
O for a balm, to soothe
Your breast to quiet!

O for the power to call
Your peace, and breathe it!
O for an hour to fall
Asleep, beneath it!

O for your hand, to hush
Loud caves of thunder!
O for the burning bush,
And graves thereunder!

Lie still, my love, and do not speak, because
In silence is fulfilling of these laws;
Fastidious sorcery lives not in speech.
Let each devoutly take the hand of each,
But lightly, and without the emphasis
Of pressure, or persuasion of a kiss.

Breathe now with breath diminished to the least;
Narrow your eyelids to entreat the beast;
Make soft your glances; never show surprise
Discovering the lion in his eyes —
The little lion like a burning bush —

Approaching languidly, with bush and bush
Sighed from the padding velvet, see him crouch
And spurn the carpet for the painted couch,
Like a gilt feather on its pillows tossed.

Lie still, my love, lie still, or all is lost.
From violence of lust remote, withdrawn,
He shudders delicately to a yawn,
And with their pulses in a mute accord
Lies down between these lovers like a sword.