Our human nakedness, and could endow
     With spiritual splendour a white brow
     That else had grinned at me the fact I loathed? 
     A kiss is but a kiss now! and no wave
     Of a great flood that whirls me to the sea. 
     But, as you will! we’ll sit contentedly,
     And eat our pot of honey on the grave.

     XXX

     What are we first?  First, animals; and next
     Intelligences at a leap; on whom
     Pale lies the distant shadow of the tomb,
     And all that draweth on the tomb for text. 
     Into which state comes Love, the crowning sun: 
     Beneath whose light the shadow loses form. 
     We are the lords of life, and life is warm. 
     Intelligence and instinct now are one. 
     But nature says:  ’My children most they seem
     When they least know me:  therefore I decree
     That they shall suffer.’  Swift doth young Love flee,
     And we stand wakened, shivering from our dream. 
     Then if we study Nature we are wise. 
     Thus do the few who live but with the day: 
     The scientific animals are they. —
     Lady, this is my sonnet to your eyes.

     XXXI

     This golden head has wit in it.  I live
     Again, and a far higher life, near her. 
     Some women like a young philosopher;
     Perchance because he is diminutive. 
     For woman’s manly god must not exceed
     Proportions of the natural nursing size. 
     Great poets and great sages draw no prize
     With women:  but the little lap-dog breed,
     Who can be hugged, or on a mantel-piece
     Perched up for adoration, these obtain
     Her homage.  And of this we men are vain? 
     Of this!  ’Tis ordered for the world’s increase! 
     Small flattery!  Yet she has that rare gift
     To beauty, Common Sense.  I am approved. 
     It is not half so nice as being loved,
     And yet I do prefer it.  What’s my drift?

     XXXII

     Full faith I have she holds that rarest gift
     To beauty, Common Sense.  To see her lie
     With her fair visage an inverted sky
     Bloom-covered, while the underlids uplift,
     Would almost wreck the faith; but when her mouth
     (Can it kiss sweetly? sweetly!) would address
     The inner me that thirsts for her no less,
     And has so long been languishing in drouth,
     I feel that I am matched; that I am man! 
     One restless corner of my heart or head,
     That holds a dying something never dead,
     Still frets, though Nature giveth all she can. 
     It means, that woman is not, I opine,
     Her sex’s antidote.  Who seeks the asp
     For serpent’s bites?  ’Twould calm me could I clasp
     Shrieking Bacchantes with their souls of wine!

     XXXIII