Elinor Wylie

Valentine

Too high, too high to pluck 
My heart shall swing. 
A fruit no bee shall suck, 
No wasp shall sting.

If on some night of cold 
It falls to ground 
In apple-leaves of gold 
I’ll wrap it round.

And I shall seal it up 
With spice and salt, 
In a carven silver cup, 
In a deep vault.

Before my eyes are blind 
And my lips mute, 
I must eat core and rind 
Of that same fruit.

Before my heart is dust 
By the end of all, 
Eat it I must, I must 
Were it bitter gall.

But I shall keep it sweet 
By some strange art; 
Wild honey I shall eat 
When I eat my heart.

O honey cool and chaste 
As clover’s breath! 
Sweet Heaven I shall taste 
Before my death.