.
That faint gray twilight on the swelling pout,
Like senses fading in the taper’s gleam.
That red, detected through the mountain steam
from a burnt offering to Love put out.
.
Contentment of accumulated gift
resting on hands extended openly;
Full vessel till the shoulder’s sudden lift,
Then glance and flexure and diversity.
.
The throat encircled with a little band
Where priestly fingers use to grasp and press,
And then the neck’s utter defenselessness
Peacefully smoothed as though by Nature’s hand.
–Paris, April 1913
