Oracles

“ ’TIS PITY—” —FORD. BLOW on the flame ! The charcoal’s vaporous fume Shall hide our shame ! Come, love, within the gloom ! For one last night, sweet sister, be the same ; Come, nestle with me in sweet Death’s hot womb ! Two sunny eyes ! And this is all my ruin ! Two gleaming thighs ! And all to my undoing ! Far-swelling curves in ivory rapture rise Warm and too white—bethink you of the wooing ! A kiss of fire ; A touch of passionate yearning Steals higher and higher— And kisses are returning ! The strong white grasp draws me still nigher and nigher, Our fusing forms in one fierce furnace burning ! 26