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Arthur Symons - Body’s Blood
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And if I love you more than my own soul 
Then must you die and I shall never die 
Until I reach you, who have loved you so 
That life and death are little more than dreams 
And night-vigils and visitings from God. 
You loved me, lied to me, left me. What`s a bride 
That ought to have been brideless? For you were 
A girl that never should have married; one 
So much more wonderful than I imagined 
Anyone could be; made of no virgin soil, 
But veritable virgin when I met you, 
Before I made you woman. And that`s over, 
As all such things have always been and shall be 
In this world and the next. You know I might 
Just: chance to meet you, at some street-corner 
Under the glaring lights, in Leicester Square, 
Where you and I came out of the Empire. There 
How well we know the stage-door, you and I, 
And how you changed your houses; Howland Street, 
Where Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud lived 
Some storm-tossed years of intense passion and pain 
And love and hatred. There I hated you 
And there I loved you, if Verlaine had met you 
What songs he would have written!  Not like mine, 
That were my veritable blood, my naked self, 
My body and my soul. All these I laid 
One after another before you, and you trod 
With delicate feet that never could have hurt me, 
As birds might, on my body and on my soul, 
And on my body`s blood. God`s cruel, dear: 
And have I not been crueller than God?
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