CLYTIE 
107 
 
But where’s the ship the kicking mast, the plunging bow, 
the reeling hull 
Aching beneath the bacchant blast, malevolent and beauti-
ful ?   
 
Ai !  Ai !  then where’s my man, my man ?  I am a witch’s 
sieve to-night, 
Parched as the lusty Lesbian was for her savage lord, the 
light !   
 
Ah !  couldst thou slay me and appease—though naught 
but slaughter serve my turn, 
I, in an hour that bring thee ease, fret the night’s silk and 
ache and burn. 
 
But now—my whole life stings in me ;  a viper violates my 
veins ;   
Locusta laughs at Lalage !  a ghoul that sucks at her own 
brains !   
 
Where is the ship ?  Where is the ship ?  Where is my 
man, my man, my man ?   
—Who gave thee power to rend and rip the hearty out from 
a courtezan ?   
 
I roved from town to town :  I played the whore in every 
slimy stews. 
God !  I am like a moon-struck maid, easing her drought 
on sister dews.