Red lips are not so red As the stained stones kissed by the English dead. Kindness of wooed and wooer Seems shame to their love pure. O Love, your eyes lose lure¹ When I behold² eyes blinded in my stead！

    Your slender attitude Trembles not exquisite³ like limbs knife-skewed, Rolling and rolling there Where God seems not to care； Till the fierce Love they bear Cramps⁴ them in death's extreme decrepitude⁵.

    Your voice sings not so soft, ——Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft⁶, —— Your dear voice is not dear, Gentle, and evening clear, As theirs whom none now hear Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed.

    Heart, you were never hot, Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot； And though your hand be pale, Paler are all which trail Your cross through flame and hail： Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not.