The Secret Splendour

These small hands offer

Nought save their poverty,

But the whole of their poor selves

They bring to thee—

Hollows of hunger that take

No other gift to slake

The heart's cry, they will burn

Lonesomely if thou turn

Thy beauty away!

So deeply poor are they,

Nothing can richen them enough,

Nothing but the love-splendoured stuff

The dreamer in me quests:

My two curved beggar-palms

Shall only bear as alms

The warm perfection of thy breasts.

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