Vineyards I saw, gold-dusted grapes in stack—
Your black, black curls flung passionately back.
XLIII
How ebon rich, how wondrous, is your hair!
When here it floats beside me darkly free,
This is the vision that I seem to see:
A roof in Nineveh the Ancient where
Night long there pulses upward on the air
The breath of the great earth-breast’s heat fiercely,
A Titan’s passion like to, first set free