. . .But in the body of woman He raises up the dead. "Gracile and straight as birches, Swift as the questing birds, They fill true-lovers' drink-horns up, Who speak not, having no words. "Love is not delicate toying, A slim and shimmering mesh; It is two souls wrenched into one, Two bodies made one flesh. "Lust is a sprightly servant, Gallant where wines are poured; Love is a bitter master, Love is an iron lord. "Satin ease of the body, Fattened sloth of the hands, These and their like he will not send, Only immortal fires to rend — And the world's end is your journey's end, And your stream chokes in the sands. "Pleached calms shall not await you, Peace you shall never find; Nought but the living moorland Scourged naked by the wind. "Nought but the living moorland, And your lo. . . Read More