Hath not I worn your own eyes?
Hath not I mocked sight divine?
To eat from me is bitter fruit,
for sharp the twang of briar's lute;
and o my touch is oft my strain,
for you a weakly beat refrain.

Alive, alive, a life I lied!
What joy to hear you softly pine,
what sin to give a heart not mine
a wondrous plume so brightly dyed.
If bleed to see me kiss you ill,
you bleed for me? Then bleed you will.

Might I speak to you in twain?
For know you only of my name;
it's in your dreams that 'I' resides,
not I, entreating your bedside,
not I, repeating your asides,
grazing fangs upon your hide.

You are to me the summer breeze,
the dance of newly blooming trees
and thrill might I to feel you still,
to pluck the sway of daffodil,
but lo the madness of the storm,
the pull, the screaming eye that warms.