Outside the panes, the day grows cold
Where broke the day's first clangour...
Close in my hands at eve I hold
Your hatred and your anger !

Place on my lap the cruel rocks
Day's memories repeat ;
The silver of your wormwood bring
And lay it at my feet.

So that your light, unfettered heart
May like a free fird sing ;
That you, the mightiest, may recline
And at my soft lips cling.

Soft as a child's low laughter, I,
With a warm kiss unsought,
Shall blot out all the flaming hell
Within your eyes and thought.

Tomorrow when the bugle's sound
First breaks the murk of dawn,
Then in the gloaming I myself
Will put your garments on.

You will not take my tears with you —
They are till later stored !
But I shall give you for the fight
My kiss, a piercing sword.

That you may have 'mid whistling steel —
For shouts or silence made —
Lips like a musket's stern discharge,
Hard as a sabre-blade.