i.

I could sing of breasts and thighs
of beating hearts and burning sighs
and tell the old familiar lies
but what would be the profit?
I know a skin that’s smooth as milk,
that promises joy and will not bilk
I know the susurrus of silk
as she begins to doff it .
I’ve put my head upon her heart
and through the warm flesh felt the start
of the beating of which my pulse is part--
my passion’s easy tinder.
And yet, although the red blood roars
another vision gives me pause--
her beauty marred by lust’s red claws--
Impotence would be kinder.

ii.

Lust is no crimson harlot --passion’s pale
and trembles to men’s touching;
quick the grasp must ever be , or , frail

before the steel clad thought , it melts away.

Of what avail those hot and burning thighs
impatient in the grass , like tigers crouching,
if, in the world behind those smouldering eyes

I see vast deserts , grim and ashy grey .