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.