Whose frank arms pass unfretted through its bole
Who wear’st thy femineity
Light as entrailèd blossoms, that shalt find
It erelong silver shackles unto thee.
Thou whose young sex is yet but in thy soul;—
As hoarded in the vine
Hang the gold skins of undelirious wine,
As air sleeps, till it toss its limbs in breeze;—
In whom the mystery which lures and sunders;
Grapples and thrusts apart; endears, estranges,