Loveliness like a delicate silver flute
Pressed to a negro's lips—
III
Do you then wish for all those griefs
Whose snarling hands you kiss,
Kneeling in adoration to a dagger
As saints before a cross?
You who have tossed all flowers away,
Coveting the drenched red peonies of blood
Their javelin-petals wet with slaughter,—