Page:Poems and ballads (IA balladspoems00swinrich).pdf/60

 Till the acrid hour aches out and ceases, And the sheathed eyeball sleepier swims, The deep flank smoothes its dimpling creases, And passion loosens all the limbs:

Till dreams of sharp grey north-sea weather Fall faint upon your fiery sleep, As on strange sands a strayed bird's feather The wind may choose to lose or keep.

But I, who leave my queen of panthers, As a tired honey-heavy bee Gilt with sweet dust from gold-grained anthers Leaves the rose-chalice, what for me?

From the ardours of the chaliced centre, From the amorous anthers' golden grime, That scorch and smutch all wings that enter, I fly forth hot from honey-time.