THAT nose is out of drawing. With a gasp, She pants upon the passionate lips that ache With the red drain of her own mouth, and make A monochord of colour. Like an asp, One lithe lock wriggles in his rutilant grasp. Her bosom is an oven of myrrh, to bake Love's white warm shewbread to a browner cake. The lock his fingers clench has burst its hasp. The legs are absolutely abominable. Ah! what keen overgust of wild-eyed woes Flags in that bosom, flushes in that nose? Nay! Death sets riddles for desire to spell, Responsive. What red hem earth's passion sews, But may be ravenously unripped in hell? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VANQUISHED; ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL GRANT by FRANCIS FISHER BROWNE A STRANGE MEETING by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES GREEK ARCHITECTURE by HERMAN MELVILLE THE LADY POVERTY by ALICE MEYNELL ON HIS BEING [OR, HAVING] ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE by JOHN MILTON SONG OF SHERWOOD by ALFRED NOYES IN AN ARTIST'S STUDIO by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI |