The Relic

WHEN my grave is broke up again

Some second guest to entertain,

—For graves have learn’d that woman-head,

To be to more than one a bed—

And he that digs it, spies

A bracelet of bright hair about the bone,

Will not he let us alone,

And think that there a loving couple lies,

Who thought that this device might be some way

To make their souls at the last busy day

Meet at this grave, and make a little stay?

If this fall in a time, or land,

Where mass-devotion doth command,

Then he that digs us up will bring

Us to the bishop or the king,

To make us relics; then

Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I

A something else thereby;

All women shall adore us, and some men.

And, since at such time miracles are sought,

I would have that age by this paper taught

What miracles we harmless lovers wrought.

First we loved well and faithfully,

Yet knew not what we loved, nor why;

Difference of sex we never knew,

No more than guardian angels do;

Coming and going we

Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals;

Our hands ne’er touch’d the seals,

Which nature, injured by late law, sets free.

These miracles we did; but now alas!

All measure, and all language, I should pass,

Should I tell what a miracle she was.