Of All But One That Love Be Made...

A flower, if, let it be a lotus;
A song, my dirge, my egress;
A season, then fall—for it ever does;
Or a colour, if, be black, no less.

A flower, if, let it be a lotus
For not the beauty but the span
Of the leaf that floats, below us,
Be my lover, and me, her man.

But a message, if, be it on her breath
A song, my dirge, my egress
To void—the dream of dust and death—
Be she my fatal seductress.

Gold it be, hope it must,
If, being fruitless and frail, it be
A season, then fall—for it ever does—
Be to every twig of every me.

But of all but one that love be made
A zephyr or a zest as He may bless
Be a feeling, if, let it be no shade
Or a colour, if, be black, no less.