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.