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First time he kissed me, he
but only kissed
The fingers of this hand
wherewith I write,
And ever since it grew more
clean and white, . .
Slow to world-greetings . .
quick with its "Oh, list,"
When the angels speak. A
ring of amethyst
I could not wear here
plainer to my sight,
Than that first kiss. The
second passed in height
The first, and sought the
forehead, and half missed,
Half falling on the hair. O
beyond meed!
That was the chrism of love,
which love's own crown,
With sanctifying sweetness,
did precede.
The third, upon my lips, was
folded down
In perfect, purple state!
since when, indeed,
I have been proud and said,
"My Love, my own."
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