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And does the old wound shudder open? Shall
I nurse again my days to a girl's sight,
Feeling the bandaged and unquiet night
Slide? Writhe in silly ecstasy? Banal
Greetings rehearse till a quotidian drawl
Carols a promise? Stoop an acolyte
Who stood my master? Must my blood flow bright,
Childish, I chilled and darkened? Strong pulse crawl?

I see I do, it must, trembling I see
Grace of her switching walk away from me
Fastens me where I stop now, smiling pain;
And neither pride don nor the fever shed
More, till the furor when we slide to bed,
Enter calenture for the boiling brain.


Submitted by Holt

Added: 1 Mar 2004 | Last Read: 27 May 2012 12:22 PM | Viewed: 2719 times

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