THE COURT OF THE PROFANE. 
23 
Absorb her eyelids’ lazy light, 
 And read her bosom to devise 
Fresh blossoms of the heart of hell, 
And secret joys of Jezebel. 
 
Her lips are fastened to my breast 
 To suck out blood in feverish tides ; 
The token of her I possessed 
 Still on my withered cheek abides. 
Thus slowly the desire grows 
To kill and have her yet—who knows ?