Rondel

Kissing her hair I sat against her feet,Wove and unwove it, wound and found it sweet;Made fast therewith her hands, drew down her eyes,Deep as deep flowers and dreamy like dim skies;With her own tresses bound and found her fair,Kissing her hair.

Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me,Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea;What pain could get between my face and hers?What new sweet thing would love not relish worse?Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed me there,Kissing her hair?