Clark Ashton Smith
Thou comfortest me with the manna of thy love,
And the kisses of thy mouth are wine and sustenance;
They are grateful as fruit
In lonely orchards by the wayside of a ruinous land,
They are sweet as the purple grapes
On parching hills that confront the autumnal desert,
Or apples that the mad simoom hath spared
In a garden with walls of syenite.
Thy loosened hair is a veil
For the weariness of mine eyes and eyelids,
Which have known the redoubled sun
In a desert valley with slopes of the dust of white marble,
And have gazed on the mounded salt
In the marshes of a lake of dead waters.
Thy body is a secret Eden
Fed with lethean springs,
And the touch of thy flesh is like to the savor of the lotos.
In thy hair is a perfume of ecstasy,
And a perfume of sleep;
Between thy thighs is a valley of delight,
And a valley of peace.
A Psalm to the Best Beloved
From all the moments of our love, That eve when sudden rapture was
What moment do I most recall? The rainbow of a storm of tears,
That first mad kiss, that made you swoon And something in us rose and bloomed
Upon the bedded leaves of fall? That dies not with the barren years?
That hour, when careless of the ferns The dawn that found us wakeful still
And blossoms crushed whereon we lay, And lit the flushing window-pane ---
I found the fruits of my desire Till I arose and drew the blind
Amid your garments' disarray? And sought your waiting arms again.
That time upon the tiger-skin Alas! I cannot bear to choose
When kiss by kiss my lips had set, Where all is infinitely dear:
A rosy girdle round your breast From all our love, I would not lose
And round your throat a carcenet. A smile, a pulse-beat or a tear!
Moments