Page:An epic of women and other poems (IA epicofwomenother00osha).pdf/228

 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!—