Lammermoore.

I have no poetic soul — lips are lips
Not though the thought of them burns like a hell —
Like a hectic in my blood — like the grapes
And cold spring — like one icy drop that will
Slake the drought — sweet as thirst — as smoke — as spice —
As sweet as sickness and its sweeter cure —

Though lips are lips — and eyes are — ever — eyes —
Though common as common — are rare as rare —
Darker eyes than depths — than desolation —
Than after burning — than night — than black night —
Than loss more deep than empathy — than reaching —

O the curse of sight!
Of savour — and touch — signs that block the way!
Lips are enough, and eyes, in their beauty.