W.H.DAVIES

A Fleeting Passion

Though shalt not laugh, though shalt not romp,

Let's grimly kiss with bated breath;

As quietly and solemnly

As life when it is kissing Death.

Now in the silence of the grave,

My hand is squeezing that soft breast;

While thou dost in such passion lie,

It mocks me with its look of rest.

But when the morning comes at last,

And we must part, our passions cold,

You'll think of some new feather, scarf

To buy with my small piece of gold,

And I'll be dreaming of green lanes,

Where little things with beating hearts

Hold shining eyes between the leaves,

Till men with horses pass, and carts.