No Higher

High temple of my love, upon low bed,
Exalted bed, that lies beneath my knee,
I come with naked thighs to worship thee,
And naked lips and hands to clasp thy head.
Yet is my flesh thick-wrapped compared to this—
My naked needing mind and my desire
That catch the half-harsh seeing of your bliss,
As though your sight could speak my will to fire.
A trumpet, gold, yet soft, I slowly near;
Like timpani surrounding you, I rise;
Yet soundless on my altar I appear,
To climax with the glory of your eyes.
Low worshippers are we of self-love kind
Whose depth on earth can higher no one find.

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