My Life

I live not from hour to hour

But in dream on dream of you, Sweet!

The dawn is the ten-petalled flower

Of your holy feet.

I am told that midday appears,

But the perfect globe of noon

Is made from the hemispheres

Of your breasts where shadows swoon.

I hark to a rumour of even,

But all that I know are your eyes

Drooping their gleams of heaven

To the deep where the child earth lies.

I have heard of an hour that is night;

O how should I tell, when I see

Nothing but your hair's hidden light

Break loose its mystery?

All time is the shine of your shape,

All space is the stretch of your soul;

When the truths of your silence undrape,

The rhythms of Creation roll!

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