Louise Bogan


What laid, I said, 
My being waste ? 
'Twas your sweet flesh 
With its sweet taste, --

Which, like a rose, 
Fed with a breath, 
And at its full 
Belied all death. 

It's at springs we drink; 
It's bread we eat, 
And no fine body, 
Head to feet, 

Should force all bread 
And drink together, 
Nor be both sun 
And hidden weather. 

Ah no, it should not; 
Let it be. 
But once heart's feast 
You were to me.