INTRIGUE

 

 

Thou art my love, And thou art the peace of sundown When the blue shadows soothe, And the grasses and the leaves sleep To the song of the little brooks, Woe is me. Thou art my love, And thou art a strorm That breaks black in the sky, And, sweeping headlong, Drenches and cowers each tree, And at the panting end There is no sound Save the melancholy cry of a single owl— Woe is me! Thou are my love, And thou art a tinsel thing, And I in my play Broke thee easily, And from the little fragments Arose my long sorrow— Woe is me. Thou art my love, And thou art a wary violet, Drooping from sun-caresses, Answering mine carelessly— Woe is me.

 

 

Thou art my love, And thou art the ashes of other men's love, And I bury my face in these ashes, And I love them— Woe is me. Thou art my love, And thou art the beard On another man's face— Woe is me. Thou art my love, And thou art a temple, And in this temple is an altar, And on this altar is my heart— Woe is me. Thou art my love, And thou art a wretch. Let these sacred love-lies choke thee, From I am come to where I know your lies as truth And you truth as lies— Woe is me.

 

 

 

 

 

Thou art my love, And thou art a priestess, And in they hand is a bloody dagger, And my doom comes to me surely— Woe is me. Thou art my love, And thou art a skull with ruby eyes, And I love thee— Woe is me. Thou art my love, And I doubt thee. And if peace came with thy murder Then would I murder— Woe is me.

 

 

Thou art my love, And thou art death, Aye, thou art death Black and yet black, But I love thee, I love thee— Woe, welcome woe, to me.

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