Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/146

 But the time came of famished hours, Maimed loves and mean, This ghastly thin-faced time of ours, To spoil Faustine.

You seem a thing that hinges hold, A love-machine With clockwork joints of supple gold— No more, Faustine.

Not godless, for you serve one God, The Lampsacene, Who metes the gardens with his rod; Your lord, Faustine.

If one should love you with real love (Such things have been, Things your fair face knows nothing of, It seems, Faustine);

That clear hair heavily bound back, The lights wherein Shift from dead blue to burnt-up black; Your throat, Faustine,

Strong, heavy, throwing out the face And hard bright chin And shameful scornful lips that grace Their shame, Faustine,