Poetry Archives

Had I the power
   To Midas given of old
To touch a flower
   And leave the petals gold
I then might touch thy face,
   Delightful boy,
And leave a metal grace,
   A graven joy.

Thus would I slay,—
   Ah, desperate device!
The vital day
   That trembles in thine eyes,
And let the red lips close
   Which sang so well,
And drive away the rose
   To leave a shell.

Then I myself,
   Rising austere and dumb
On the hight shelf
   Of my half-lighted room,
Would place the shining bust
   And wait alone,
Until I was but dust,
   Buried unknown.

Thus in my love
   For nations yet unborn,
I would remove
   From our two lives the morn,
And muse on loveliness
   In mine armchair,
Content should Time confess
   How sweet you were.