[ ] - Theodor Storm

You bit your lips till they were sore and bleeding,
You wanted this, I know it well, because my lips once covered them.
You let your fair hair be bleached by burning sun and rain:
You wanted it because my hand had once caressed it.
You stand all day over the stove in the heat and smoke.
You delicate hands are all raw.
You want it thus, I know it well, because my eyes once lingered on them.