Poem for August 7, 2033

Full faith I have she holds that rarest gift

To beauty, Common Sense. To see her lie

With her fair visage an inverted sky

Bloom-covered, while the underlids uplift,

Would almost wreck the faith; but when her mouth

(Can it kiss sweetly? sweetly!) would address

The inner me that thirsts for her no less,

And has so long been languishing in drouth,

I feel that I am matched; that I am man!

One restless corner of my heart or head,

That holds a dying something never dead,

Still frets, though Nature giveth all she can.

It means, that woman is not, I opine,

Her sex's antidote. Who seeks the asp

For serpent's bites? 'Twould calm me could I clasp

Shrieking Bacchantes with their souls of wine!