Classic Poem

In that little ugly hut
I'd like to burn down,
on a spread of rotten bedding
fit for the trash,
entwined in those
ugliest of ugly arms —
may they break! —
you're sleeping, I suppose —
and because of you every hour
of the madder-red day,
all through the night
black as leopard-flower seeds,
till the floor beneath me
creaks and groans,
I lie here tormented!

ENVOY

It is I, poor thing,
who burn up
my own heart —
this same heart that makes me
long for you so!