Who spills all kisses from such brimming lips?
O, petals creep in my bodice like tickling moths
That woke in a seam when old silk warmed to me.

They are past; they are a floating shadow again
That seems to show its own depths floating under.

Had they a lute; or was it quite the water?
They might have taken me into their laps
And loved me because I am not a man:
But they are gone as though beneath full shawls
Perhaps to a hushed garden where only night
And each other's half caught breath will stir
Within their close neck-lawns while they listen.

When rarenesses like this open to me
By some supreme inexplicable hour
Women are the revealers and I know
Life is the apex of eternity:
God is the perfection of ourselves:
Divinity is the only immortality:
Evil is imperfection. Art is all,
Because it is the science of perfection.