Stain

As long as you keep

Imprisoned in conceit

There’s no holding hands;

Pleasure not for me

Where it stinks

Of old Narcissus.

If you said it was your desire

And not your yielding

To an inferior’s wish;

If it were not your reversing

Your lust into mine

For self-deceit;

If your pure blood

Worshiped chaste union

Of two equal spirits,

Then, oh, surely it were bliss

In entwined sleep.

My violent heart-beats

Fret me too much:

Things are amiss

Between you and me

As yet.