I

Though she hath lifted up my face to hers, And kissed the lips of worship she denied, There is no mouth of verse, Here in the shadow of the crucified, Or voice of love; only my soul that died, My dead soul and my curse!-- She asks me now for flowers that are ashes, Here where the red flow’r of my life lies slain: For love, that lashed me once and now that lashes Her soul again.