And jeer at my ways,

But you're pinked to the core.

And before I have done,

I will prick my name in

With the front of my steel,

And your lily-white skin

Shall be printed with me.

For I've come here to win!

Absence

My cup is empty to-night,

Cold and dry are its sides,

Chilled by the wind from the open window.

Empty and void, it sparkles white in the moonlight.

The room is filled with the strange scent

Of wistaria blossoms.

They sway in the moon's radiance

And tap against the wall.

But the cup of my heart is still,

And cold, and empty.

When you come, it brims

Red and trembling with blood,

Heart's blood for your drinking;

To fill your mouth with love

And the bitter-sweet taste of a soul.

A Gift

See! I give myself to you, Beloved!

My words are little jars

For you to take and put upon a shelf.

Their shapes are quaint and beautiful,

And they have many pleasant colours and lustres

To recommend them.

Also the scent from them fills the room

With sweetness of flowers and crushed grasses.

When I shall have given you the last one,

You will have the whole of me,

But I shall be dead.

The Bungler

You glow in my heart

Like the flames of uncounted candles.

But when I go to warm my hands,

My clumsiness overturns the light,

And then I stumble

Against the tables and chairs.

Fool's Money Bags

Outside the long window,

With his head on the stone sill,

The dog is lying,

Gazing at his Beloved.

His eyes are wet and urgent,

And his body is taut and shaking.

It is cold on the terrace;

A pale wind licks along the stone slabs,

But the dog gazes through the glass

And is content.

The Beloved is writing a letter.

Occasionally she speaks to the dog,

But she is thinking of her writing.

Does she, too, give her devotion to one

Not worthy?

Miscast I

I have whetted my brain until it is like a Damascus blade,

So keen that it nicks off the floating fringes of passers-by,

So sharp that the air would turn its edge

Were it to be twisted in flight.

Licking passions have bitten their arabesques into it,

And the mark of them lies, in and out,

Worm-like,

With the beauty of corroded copper patterning white steel.

My brain is curved like a scimitar,

And sighs at its cutting

Like a sickle mowing grass.

But of what use is all this to me!

I, who am set to crack stones

In a country lane!

Miscast II

My heart is like a cleft pomegranate

Bleeding crimson seeds

And dripping them on the ground.

My heart gapes because it is ripe and over-full,

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