Page:American Poetry 1922.djvu/181



It was not chastity that made me cold nor fear, only I knew that you, like myself, were sick of the puny race that crawls and quibbles and lisps of love and love and lovers and love's deceit.

It was not chastity that made me wild but fear that my weapon, tempered in different heat, was over-matched by yours, and your hand skilled to yield death-blows, might break.

With the slightest turn—no ill-will meant— my own lesser, yet still somewhat fine-wrought fiery-tempered, delicate, over-passionate steel. 167