Love, like a wind, shook wide your blosmy eyes,

You trembled, and your breath came sobbing-wise

For that you loved me.

You were so kind, so sweet, none could withhold

To adore, but that you were so strange, so cold;

For that you loved me.

Like to a box of spikenard did you break

Your heart about my feet. What words you spake!

For that you loved me.

Life fell to dust without me; so you tried

All carefullest ways to drive me from your side,

For that you loved me.

You gave yourself as children give, that weep

And snatch back, with—‘I meant you not to keep!’

For that you loved me.

I am no woman, girl, nor ever knew

That love could teach all ways that hate could do

To her that loved me.

Have less of love, or less of woman in

Your love, or loss may even from this begin—

That you so love me.

For, wild Penelope, the web you wove

You still unweave, unloving all your love;

Is this to love me,

Or what rights have I that scorn could deny?

Even of your love, alas, poor Love must die,

If so you love me!