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That is his truth that seems to sink supine
Into your bosom's bliss, the scented snare,
Killed by your kisses shuddering in his spine
And blinded in the bowers of your hair!
This is his truth, who seems to writhe and sob
Beneath the earthquake pangs of you caress,
Whose heart burns out in one volcanic throb,
Whose life is eaten up of nothingness.
This is his truth, and yours, that seem to be
Mere beauteous bodies gripped in epicene
And sterile passion, all unchastity
In being chaste, all chaste in our obscene
And sexless mouthings, that repugnant roll
Their bestial billows on the snow-pure soul.
Into your bosom's bliss, the scented snare,
Killed by your kisses shuddering in his spine
And blinded in the bowers of your hair!
This is his truth, who seems to writhe and sob
Beneath the earthquake pangs of you caress,
Whose heart burns out in one volcanic throb,
Whose life is eaten up of nothingness.
This is his truth, and yours, that seem to be
Mere beauteous bodies gripped in epicene
And sterile passion, all unchastity
In being chaste, all chaste in our obscene
And sexless mouthings, that repugnant roll
Their bestial billows on the snow-pure soul.
— 92 —
