Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.
Any Lover, Any LassRichard Middleton (18821911)
W
Why do her lips control
The kisses of a summer night,
When I would love her soul?
And painted them with fire;
They stir the ashes of my heart
To embers of desire.
In so divine a shape,
That I am servant to my thought
And can no wise escape.
About her neck doth play;
I find her colours everywhere,
They are the pride of day.
I see her fingers move
I know in very truth that men
Have died for less than love.
Have sought her like a prayer;
It is my better self that cries
‘Would she were not so fair!’
And find a calmer place,
Where I might undesirous see
Her too desirèd face:
Nor hear her lips unroll
Dream after dream the lifelong night,
When I would love her soul.