Red lips are not so red 
As the stained stones kissed by the English dead. 
Kindness of wooed and wooer 
Seems shame to their love pure. 
O Love, your eyes lose lure 
When I behold eyes blinded in my stead! 

Your slender attitude 
Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed, 
Rolling and rolling there 
Where God seems not to care; 
Till the fierce love they bear 
Cramps them in death's extreme decrepitude. 

Your voice sings not so soft,- 
Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft,- 
Your dear voice is not dear, 
Gentle, and evening clear, 
As theirs whom none now hear, 
Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed. 

Heart, you were never hot 
Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot; 
And though your hand be pale, 
Paler are all which trail 
Your cross through flame and hail: 
Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not.