Give back, my love, that fleshy bowl
That I may fill it up
With lovers' dreams, fresh from the soul,
And drink its body wine.
Do not withhold, sweet sister, please,
I grant that you are fine.
When we have drunk and rest at ease
We shall refill the cup.
Tomorrow brings another rage,
Another lonely hell
Whose sadness you must camouflage
With educated skill,
Or act the part of happiness,
Who laughs and drinks her fill,
Not be derided by the stress
Of what your senses tell.
The gift of love cannot be bought
With worldly goods alone.
The food of love cannot be sought
By dreaming overmuch.
In short, love is a sacred thing,
As pure as sight or touch,
And when it comes, sweet sister, sing
Its praises in the bone.