102 
VICTORY 
 
As swords that flash forget the rust 
That clings them round, as fighting men 
Forget their wounds, with no distrust 
Of death.  Yea, dust may turn to dust, 
 
Man’s spirit to his God again, 
But memory cannot fade, and while 
My hot devouring kisses rain 
On thy worn face, in writhing pain 
 
Biting my lips, that fiercely smile 
As tigers’ lips, and gnaw thy mouth, 
Till the blood spurts in dainty style 
And blinds and bruises me awhile, 
 
Yet satiates the awful drouth ; 
I suck, and shudder, and rave, and clutch, 
Thy breasts, with wounds and sores uncouth, 
Drenched with diseases of the south, 
 
The hot south lands, where crooked crutch, 
The leprous arm, the withered hand, 
Bear sway, where thou wast nurtured, such 
A queen as men delight to touch.