From that derided realm where logic dies.
Her breast is the color that a north wind
Would have if it were visible to eyes.
Upon her body, color in light and darkness
Subdues the ribald ponderousness of life
And brings the filmy, flashing seriousness
Detested by the prostrate toil of mud;
Hated in taverns at midnight;
Banished from every couch when morning
Rearranges the ancient jest.