Is this love

Green grass round my throbbing head,

Leafed branches high above me,

A twitter from the hedge-rows high,

A song of violence in me.

And love? Nay, the word is wrong,

The maiden of my bed,

Foreign and strange to inward thoughts,

With my soul unwed.

Bloods intermingle, then grow hot,

Inward bliss is nigh;

And yet two is not one;

My soul is standing by.

Passion's bounty is not lust,

Aching for the unknown,

But a restful finality bought

By instincts we own.