But in this carnal strife the Intimate
Achieves for one snatched swiftness. Kiss me, love!
Tannhäuser.
Ah, but the waking! As I sink to sleep
Pillowed in nuptial arms—so fresh and cool—
(Yet in their veins I know the fire that runs
Racing and maddening from the crown of flame,
The monolithic core of mystical
Red fury that is called a woman’s heart)
Sinking, I say, from the supreme embrace,