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Rosa Inferni

… with blood for dew, the bosom boils ; And a gust of sulphur is all its smell. And lo, he is horribly in the toils Of a coal-black giant flower of hell ! BROWNING, Heretic’s Tragedy, ix. I OSE of the world ! Ay, love, in that warm hour Wet with your kisses, the bewitching bud Flamed in the starlight ; then our bed your bower Heaved like the breast of some alluring flood Whereon a man might sleep for ever, until Death should surprise him, kiss his weary will Into the last repose, profounder power Than life could compass. Now I tax my skill To fi…