Page:Poems by Isaac Rosenberg (1922).djvu/80

 You small at the roots like grass; While the new lips my spirit would kiss Were not red lips of flesh, But the huge kiss of power? Where yesterday soft hair through my fingers fell A shaggy mane would entwine; And no slim form work fire to my thighs, But human Life's inarticulate mass Throb the pulse of a thing Whose mountain flanks awry Beg my mastery—mine ! Ah! I will ride the dizzy beast of the world My road—my way.