THE BETROTHAL OF PRIAPUS.
Dark water: the moonless side of the trees:
The Dog-Star sweating in the roses: Mind
Heat-curdled to sheer flesh. For ease
And the sake of coolness, having dined,
I loose a button, wrench a stud.
We belch to the tune of drunk Moselle.
What a noise in the temples—hammering blood.
Shall we sit down? Are we altogether well?
‘How weedily the river exhales!’
‘Like the smell of caterpillar’s dung.’
‘You too collected?’ ‘When I was young,
But used no camphor; Moth prevails
Over moths, you take me.’ Sounding close,
But God knows where, two landrails scrape
Nails on combs. Her hair is loose,
One tendril astray upon the nape
Of a neck which star-revealed is white
Like an open-eyed tobacco-flower—
Frail thurible that fills the night
With the subtle intoxicating power
Of summer perfume. And you too—
Your scent intoxicates; the smell
Of clothes, of hair, the essence of you.
But for the ferments of Moselle.
I’ld swoon in the languor of your perfume,
In the drowsed delicious contemplation
Of a neck seen palely through the gloom.
Another hideous eructation.—
And I wake, distressingly aware
That there are uglier things in life
Than perfumed stars and women’s hair.—
Action, then, action! will you be my wife?