An ill wind smears the battered glass with rain,
As here you lie — and here I sit — in pain,
  If not in pain of flesh, then pain of mind;
So now I speak my piece — and speak it plain.

You loved me once, and knowing love was blind,
Or, rather that our fate must be consigned
  To one anothers' shame, shewed me your fears
And handed them in trust for me to bind.

And glad I was to make a gift of tears,
My torment no less tender than your years;
  I treasured up your bruises, bound and laced
In innocence, and urged you fill my ears

With sweet endearments; only those embraced
By such a lover — only those thus placed
  By their own discipline in peril’s way —
Can know the paths of ecstasy we traced.

So often, in sweet bondage, as you lay
Awaiting my unleashing — I would stay
  My arm to kiss your trembling lips and hand,
And wipe the salted sweat and blood away.

I do not ask that any understand.
Nor shall I serve those Pharisees who brand
  The likes of us, my dear, with their own stain;
Enough for us that love once made its stand.

An ill wind smears the battered glass with rain;
Farewell, dear heart — we shall not speak again:
  This Spartan, still obedient to your will,
  Must leave you now; yet know —
                              — I love you still!