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Of thy swift amorous looks like hounds
That hunt my soul—heavy and rife
With bodiless delights and sounds,
And knowledge of a goodlier life?
—O, not until some fate shall darken
This soul with death, shall any scorn
Or hate of heaven make me mute:
Rather, through hot days, will I hearken
For quick breaths panting in pursuit,
And the swift feet of some sweet fawn
Crashing among the fallen fruit:
And him—making my whole blood blush—
I will all languishing beseech,—
Crush me, O God, as thou wouldst crush
Some fire-fed fruit, some fallen peach,
Some swollen skin of purple wine;
Care not to spare me,—nor refuse me;
Take me, to use me or abuse me,
And slay me taking me for thine!—
