Sonnets
Thouart not lovelier than lilacs,—no,Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fairThan small white single poppies,—I can bearThy beauty; though I bend before thee, thoughFrom left to right, not knowing where to go,I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor thereFind any refuge from thee, yet I swearSo has it been with mist,—with moonlight so.Like him who day by day unto his draughtOf delicate poison adds him one drop moreTill he may drink unharmed the death of ten,Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffedEach hour more deeply than the hour before,I drink—and live—what has destroyed some men.
Thouart not lovelier than lilacs,—no,Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fairThan small white single poppies,—I can bearThy beauty; though I bend before thee, thoughFrom left to right, not knowing where to go,I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor thereFind any refuge from thee, yet I swearSo has it been with mist,—with moonlight so.Like him who day by day unto his draughtOf delicate poison adds him one drop moreTill he may drink unharmed the death of ten,Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffedEach hour more deeply than the hour before,I drink—and live—what has destroyed some men.
Thouart not lovelier than lilacs,—no,Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fairThan small white single poppies,—I can bearThy beauty; though I bend before thee, thoughFrom left to right, not knowing where to go,I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor thereFind any refuge from thee, yet I swearSo has it been with mist,—with moonlight so.Like him who day by day unto his draughtOf delicate poison adds him one drop moreTill he may drink unharmed the death of ten,Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffedEach hour more deeply than the hour before,I drink—and live—what has destroyed some men.