Poezja

Fill my empty cup with thine purple lip,
The taste likes me, it sets in me fire.
Let me now, let me now thy garments rip,
Beneath, thou hast more for me t'aspire!
 
Attack me! With spears in thine eie,
Attack me, with thy "Force" of desire;
Lead this "War" and retreat not! Be not shy!
Wound and kill and put this bed on fire!
 
What will become of a child early-weaned?
Wean him not, it's too early, he sure dies;
Feed me still of those well-shaped soft pies:
Those mountains which were with milk washt and cleaned;
 
Prithee, sink me in vastness of thine arms,
The taste likes me, if from thee come those harms..