Household Gods

Or mote in the sunbeam is to that sun’s self, And we are like dead leaves in autumn’s whirl Of wind upon it. Crassus. Mystify me, girl! It is the right of an elf. Surely your flickering fire Will draw me to some mire! Aucta. Here the stream dips its mouth into the wood. So does youth’s calm and chaste beatitude Touch the black mouth of Love, the ancient whore. Crassus. Girl! what a scorpion leaping from your lips! Auta. My mouth stings as no scorpion ever stang. In this round impudent smiling face of mine There is a poison fiercer than all wines And from these eyes more subtle sorrows pour Than you can dream. These teeth have been at grips With gods; I have sung what no girl ever sang. ‘These ears have heard An insufferable word! Crassus, ‘What do you mean?