But thy froth is a serpent that hisses,
And thy gold as a balefire doth shine,
And the lovers who rise from thy kisses
Can’t walk a straight line.
I recall, with a flush and a flutter,
That orgie whose end is unknown;
Did they bear me to bed on a shutter,
Or did I reel home all alone?
Was I frequent in screams and in screeches?
Did I swear with a forcéd affright?