Арчибальд Маклиш (Archibald MacLeish)

The Word

How shall we call this love of ours? What word
Marked from the drinking of another's mouth
And streaked with slaking the ancestral drouth
And stained with syrups offered to the Lord—
What word will hold this wonder: where's the bowl
Unused till now and never used for this,
Fit for the liquor of our avarice,
Spacious to brim this vintage of the soul—

Is there no word, no perfect word but one?
Is there no cup but this wherefrom have sipped
Sad men and earthy since the morning's sun?
Must we then taste their sorrow where they lipped
The edge of lust and take our passion up
Bitter already from the common cup?