Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/145

 A star upon your birthday burned, Whose fierce serene Red pulseless planet never yearned In heaven, Faustine.

Stray breaths of Sapphic song that blew Through Mitylene Shook the fierce quivering blood in you By night, Faustine.

The shameless nameless love that makes Hell's iron gin Shut on you like a trap that breaks The soul, Faustine.

And when your veins were void and dead, What ghosts unclean Swarmed round the straitened barren bed That hid Faustine?

What sterile growths of sexless root Or epicene? What flower of kisses without fruit Of love, Faustine?

What adders came to shed their coats? What coiled obscene Small serpents with soft stretching throats Caressed Faustine?