FIERCE were the wounds you struck me, O my Love, And bitter were the blows! ... Sweeter from your dear hands all suffering Than rich love-tokens other comrades bring Of crimson oleander and of rose. Cold was your cruel laughter, O my Love, And cruel were your words! ... Sweeter such harshness on your lips than all Love-orisons from tender lips that fall, And soft love-music of chakora-birds. You plucked my heart and broke it, O my Love, And bleeding, flung it down! ... Sweeter to die thus trodden of your feet, Than reign apart upon an ivory seat Crowned in a lonely rapture of renown. |