CRUSH me, O Love, betwixt thy radiant fingers Like a frail lemon leaf or basil bloom, Till aught of me that lives for thee or lingers Be but the wraith of memory's perfume, And every sunset wind that wandereth Grow sweeter for my death! Burn me, O Love! as in a glowing censer Dies the rich substance of a sandal grain, Let my soul die till nought but an intenser Fragrance of my deep worship doth remain— And every twilight star shall hold its breath And praise thee for my death! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNET: CUPID AND VENUS by MARK ALEXANDER BOYD THE WILLOWS by FRANCIS BRET HARTE SING-SONG; A NURSERY RHYME BOOK: 123 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI A SOLDIER'S GRAVE by JOHN ALBEE TO SAN FRANCISCO by S. J. ALEXANDER POEM FOR PICTURE: TO A PORTRAIT BY EDWARD STEICHEN (RACHMANINOFF) by FRANK ANKENBRAND JR. |