The Groom

I’ll strike thee without enmity
nor wrath, like butchers at the block,
like Moses when he smote the rock!
I’ll make those eyelids gush for me

with springs of suffering, whose flow
shall slake the desert of my thirst;
— a salt flood, where my lust accurst,
with Hope to plump her sail, shall go

as from the port a pitching barge,
and in my heart they satiate
thy sobs I love shall fulminate
loud as a drum that beats a charge (c)