I was adored once, too,
Long ago by some uprooted rose
That fluttered too quick past my lips.
Too easily was she swept up by a summer’s breeze
And set adrift amongst the waves of lustful beasts
That fed off supple milky skin
And fawn eyes that through untruth
Spoke of knowing not
The taste of forbidden meats.

And so through yonder window I cast her away-
with anger or anguish, I know not.
And I wonder presently is he made a beast
Who with the mask of aversion,
But too with the shadow of anguish,
Releases a tainted maid?

But was he not already one,
If he so ravenous be
That a half-shaded doe
Be so bittersweet a loss, when in
noble breast and honest thought
He first uncovered a most gossamer deceit?

Oh! But if he were not a poet
He would care not for Virtue’s
Shackles on his soul-
He would feast and writhe with
Unholy pleasure upon the tender
Meat tainted by indulgence, and
by indulgence so it would taint him