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Sara Teasdale
Your heart is bound tightly, let
Beauty beware,
It is not hers to set
Free from the snare.
Tell her a bleeding hand
Bound it and tied it,
Tell her the knot will stand
Though she deride it;
One who withheld so long
All that you yearned to take,
Has made a snare too strong
For Beauty’s self to break.
Who buys land buys many stones,
Who buys flesh buys many bones;
Who buys eggs buys many shells,
Who buys love buys nothing else.
Love is a burr upon the floor,
Love is a thief behind the door;
Who loves leman for her breath
May quench his fire and cry for death!
Love is a bridle, love is a load,
Love is a thorn upon the road;
Love is the fly that flits its hour,
Love is the shining venom-flower.
Love is a net, love is a snare,
Love is a bubble blown with air;
Love starts hot, and waning cold,
Is withered in the grave's mould!