Why wouldst thou thoughtless spurn the easing sweet
I offer to thy spleen-toucht, waiting life
Of patient yearn, of baffled, heart-hushed strife?
Are not thy crying love-lusts sharp as knife?
Dreamy as music; hot as lava heat?
Why, when I beg thee at thy tiny feet
Dost thou refuse? when body—bosom—rife,
Thy am'rous answerings my bold queries meet.

If thy heart's fancy willeth, why delay?
For will it doth; with youth's and craving's might
Those riot joys, acme of world's delight
Rest with thy simple soul's yea—so, ignite
Crude, mordant flames of ardor, that can stay,
And check all sweeter blisses by their sway
Until dreams olden can a new dream cite,
Till whims blood-satisfied can fade away.