As lilies
fade most foully in the summer dusk,
we spend
this time together, lost in the sluttish garden’s fust.
You and I
and dust, Love’s Trinity, attempt to scale infinity.
Your lips
beneath my own – ah, sweet to sip from and to kiss! –
hold full
around the wine of bliss.
A flip-flop slips on rotting plants;
on languid,
naked parts, red ants prick out their dance.
On their
advance, the dark sustains a maddened cry of pain
that rises,
drops and dies with throbbing sobs along the night.
The hope of
more delight decays.
Must you so slight
my sore
misfortune here beneath a hoary moon?
Ah me! I
moan and writhe beside the lilies’ doom.
