Better to bide contented in the groves And lift the eyes no higher than the trees; To eat affection's dry unconsecrated loaves, And of life's heady wine accept the lees. Passion is madness and desire a snare. Love is a venture only gods ought dare.

And Oh my Dear, I know whereof I speak! Even the sorriest souls grow somehow great And tiger strength is granted to the weak When Love finds lodging in them. Soon or late Even Earth's unremarked may burn to flame, Unwitting though they be, and void of grace. Their senses may turn star-dust at a Name, And glory blind their eyes before a Face.

Therefore, Beloved, in the tangled mesh Of impotent language helplessly I strive To tell of passion that no mortal flesh Can long endure and still remain alive. Time has no slaking draughts, the world no cures... Whether you will or no, it still is yours.

If I could lay my head upon your breast And listen to your heart's unfailing drum: Music at midnight, tenderness at rest,

The dreams of all my empty days would come Softly to say: "Here is the place you sought Eagerly, far, across the dusty earth. Here is a blessing that cannot be bought, A treasure fabulous, beyond all worth."

My head upon your breast, where safety, peace And quiet breathing draw the stings of day. Bound in your arms, warm healing and release Would flood my body, washing care away.

I shall have found the grail that ends my quest you will bear my head upon your breast.