written by John Masefield
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Her heart is always doing lovely things,
Filling my wintry mind with simple flowers,
Playing sweet tunes on my untuned strings,
Delighting all my undelightful hours.
She plays me like a lute, what tune she will,
No string in me but trembles at her touch,
Shakes into sacred music, or is still,
Trembles or stops, or swells, her skill is such.
And in the dusty tavern of my soul
Where filthy lusts drink witches' brew for wine,
Her gentle hand still keeps me from the bowl,
Still keeps me man, saves me from being swine.
All grace in me, all sweetness in my verse,
Is hers, is my dear girl's, and only hers.
|Works by this author are in the public domain in countries where the copyright term is the author's life plus 51 years or less.|