the swirl and ache

love at the lips was touch
as sweet as i could bear;
and once that seemed too much;
i lived on air

that crossed me from sweet things,
the flow of--was it musk
from hidden grapevine springs
downhill at dusk?

i had the swirl and ache
from sprays of honeysuckle
that when they're gathered shake
dew on the knuckle.

i craved strong sweets, but those
seemed strong when i was young;
the petal of the rose
it was that stung.

now no joy but lacks salt,
that is not dashed with pain
and weariness and fault;
i crave the stain

of tears, the aftermark
of almost too much love,
the sweet of bitter bark
and burning clove.

when stiff and sore and scarred
i take away my hand
from leaning on it hard
in grass and sand,

the hurt is not enough:
i long for weight and strength
to feel the earth as rough
to all my length.

--Robert Frost