So, to the dance...Thy firm hand 'gainst my waist,
My palm bent backward to thy guiding palm,
Thy swift grace pusheth me. I have one qualm:
I seem to seek defeat, a sweetness taste
In yielding thee these words that I have chas'd
And trac'd to this charged moment of calm
Into which thou dost push, I yield. As balm
Requested, let the figures be rephras'd...
I'll love thee as thou wilt, and will not speak.
O, touch me, tear me from security
As from a dank cell I had learned to love
By living there too long, and growing weak!
Yea, lift me forth to dance intricately
New measures, open to the stars above.
The Benchmark
Take thou my measure; I seek not my own
But to perfect the love to thee I bear;
On tears it floateth, shaped to thy care
Among thy answers possible, unknown.
If mercy oileth thy abrading stone,
And man in me a little pride dost spare,
With gratitude, for honor, will I dare
Commit my woman's pride unto thy hone
As well. For kissing, holding, list'ning long,
In silence deep receiving wounds to heal,
Are operations too meeteth thy need.
If in the changing space where such belong
Thy stone remain wetted enough to feel...
Round me precisely, thy desire's speed.
To Wit, To Hand
The challenge is to conquer my surprise:
With Ockham's razor ready to my hand,
Arching one eyebrow posit "So?" and "And?"...
From greedy grasp sever what I'd apprise.
Yet bled of time to generate replies
That modesty or dignity demand,
Urgency's edge me cutteth where I stand,
And quiver, willing all things otherwise...
A turn so sharp were not to be desir'd,
But time, time is, for sweet and scornless touch
That we divulge and pour forth generous
Like wine or honey...tasted, not acquir'd:
What thou givest, me pleaseth give as much
To thee unhindered, spontaneous.
Rosamunde del Shore A.S. XXXII