And makes hot Hell for those who harbour it.

Naught I can say could save thee from thyself,
Ah, were I half my age! Yet even that,
Had been too old for thy sweet thirteenth year.

Still, thou art happy now, and glad thine eyes,
When, as the lilac evening gains the sky,
I lay thee, 'twixt thine own soft hair and me,
Kissing thy senses into soft delight.
Ruffling the petals of my half-closed rose
With tender touches, and perpetual care
That no wild moment of mine own delight
Deep in the flower's heart,--should set the fruit.

Ah, in the days to come, it well may be,
When thou shalt see thy beauty stained and torn
By the harsh sequel of some future love,
Thy thoughts shall stray to thy first lover's grave,
And thou shalt murmur, "Ay, but that was love.
They were most wrong who said he did me wrong.
Only I was too young to understand."


Vayu the Wind


Ah, Wind, I have always loved thee
Since those far off nights
When I lay beneath the vines