quarta-feira, 1 de julho de 2009


All thine the new wine of desire
The fruit of four lips as they clung
Till the hair and the eyelids took fire;
The fan of a serpentine tongue,
The froth of the serpents of pleasure.
More salt than the foam of the sea,
Now felt as a flame, not at leisure
As wine-shed for me!

They were purple of rainment, and golden,
Filled full of thee, fiery with wine,
Thy lovers, in haunts unbeholden,
In marvellous chambers of thine.
They are fled and their footprints escape us
Who appraise thee, adore, and abstain,
O daughter of Death and Priamus!
Our Lady of Pain.

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