Poems (Becker)/Passion-Flowers

PASSION-FLOWERS.

TO love, and love but once, be mine!—
To drain my cup at one deep draught,
And thirst the rest of weary life,
Than that a wine less red be quaffed!

Let Love's torch to its socket burn,
Then grope my way in darkest night;
Once lighted by his radiant beam,
Let me not know a glowworm's light.

Let Love's kiss, burned upon my brow,
Bide virgin there, until the mould
Shall in that peaceful, long embrace
Its sister clay at last enfold.

Fairer to me my withered hand,
Than aught that rosy youth could show;
For through its fibres came the thrill
That made my life-blood madly flow.

My whitened locks are fair to me,
For on their gold his breath exhaled;
Nor do I wish my lips were young,—
Beneath his lips their crimson paled.

Through noisy strife of struggling years,
The clash of arms and bitter wrong,
My ear hears ever the delirious beat,
The wild sweet music of that fleeting song.

No pity! I'd that one sweet hour,
Worth lifetimes of a tamer love.
At one quick grasp I crushed my flower;
Its bruised fragrance breathed, no more I'd prove.

Do I love now? Perhaps I hate;
I could not hate had I not loved so well;
But which is hate and which is love,—
I dare not ask, I could not tell.

"Mad"? Not while that memory is mine.
"Repent"? Not while my heart shall beat.
Could youth return,—thus dying I repeat,—
I'd love and lose, and live but to remember it.