The poem A Poison Tree by William Blake
I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I waterd it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.
And into my garden stole.
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see,
My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.
A SAINT'S DAMNATION
You buy my spirit with those shameless eyes
That burn my soul, you loose the torrent stream
Of my desire, you make my lips your prize,
And on them burns the whole life's hope: you deem
You buy a heart; but I am well aware
How my damnation dwells in that supreme
Passion to feel upon your shoulders bare,
And pass the dewy twilight of our sin
In the intolerable flames of hair
That clothe my body from your head; you win
The devil's bargain; I am yours to kill,
Yours, for one kiss; my spirit for your skin!
O bitter love, consuming all my will!
O love destroying, that hast drained my life
Of all those fountains of dear blood that fill
My heart! O woman, would I call you wife?
Would I content you with one touch divine
To flood your spirit with the clinging strife
Of perfect passionate joy, the joy of wine,
The drunkenness of extreme pleasure, filled
From sin's amazing cup. Oh, mine, mine, mine,
Mine, if your kisses maddened me or killed,
Mine, at the price of my damnation deep,
Mine, if you will, as once your glances willed!
Take me, or break me, slay or soothe to sleep,
If only yours one hour, one perfect hour,
Remembrance and despair and hope to steep.
In the infernal potion of that flower,
My poisonous passion for your blood! Behold!
How utterly I yield, how gladly dower
Our sin with my own spirit's quenched gold,
Clothe love with my own soul's immortal power,
Give thee my body as a fire to hold--
O love, no words, no songs--your breast my bower!