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I do not even scorn your lovers—

They clasped an image of you, a cloud,

Not the whole life of you that's mine.

I do not even pity my mistresses—

Such a poor shadow of desire

Their half-warm passion drew from me.

You are a delicate Arab mare

For whom there is but one rider;

I am a sea that takes joyfully

Only one straight ship upon my breast.

Look, like a dark princess whose beauty

Many have sung, you wear me

The one jewel that is warmed by your breast.

See, as a soldier wearying of fighting

Turns for peace to some golden city,

So do I enter you, beloved.

The scarlet that stains your lips and breast-points—

Let it be my blood that dyes them,

My very blood so gladly yielded.