Too Much Beauty, I Reckon, Is Nothing

I Wish I Were The Lily's Leaf To Fade Upon That Bosom Warm, Content To Wither, Pale And Brief, The Trophy Of Thy Paler Form.

I, Who Thought To Sink, Was Caught Up Into Love, And Taught The Whole Of Life In A New Rhythm.

Too Much Beauty, I Reckon, Is Nothing But Too Much Sun.

What I Do And What I Dream Include Thee, As The Wine Must Taste Of Its Own Grapes.

Life, Struck Sharp On Death, Makes Awful Lightning.