Kissing Her Hair

Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837–1909)

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.