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 And sorrow!, list!, he will yield up his reign. He will live in the deserts and be parched On the hot sands, he will be beggar and slave; But give again the boy to be arm-reached! Forego that space ye meant to be his grave!

Take all the female beauties of the earth! Take all afar and rend them if ye will! But, by sweet Ganymede, that Jove found worth And above Hebe did elect to fill His cup at his high festivals, and spill His fairer vice wherefrom comes newer birth—, The clod of female embraces resolve To dust, o father of the gods!, but spare This boy and his white body and golden hair. Maybe thy newer Ganymede thou meanst That he should be, and out of jealous care From Hadrian's arms to thine his beauty steal'st.

He was a kitten playing with lust, playing With his own and with Hadrian's, sometimes one And sometimes two, now splitting, now one grown, Now leaving lust, now lust's high lusts delaying, Now eyeing lust not wide, but from askance Jumping round on lust's half-unexpectance; Then softly gripping, then with fury holding, Now playfully playing, now seriously, now lying By the side of lust looking at it, now spying Which way to take lust in his lust's withholding.

Thus did the hours slide from their tangled hands And from their mixed limbs the moments slip. Now were his arms dead leaves, now iron bands, Now were his lips cups, now the things that sip, Now were his eyes too closed, and now too open, Now were his ways such as none thought might happen, Now were his arts a feather and now a whip.