Lesbia

Grow weary if you will, let me be sad. Use no more speech now; Let the silence spread gold hair above us, Fold on delicate fold. Use no more speech; You had the ivory of my life to carve…. And Picus of Mirandola is dead; And all the gods they dreamed and fabled of, Hermes, and Thoth and Bêl are rotten now, Rotten and dank. And through it all I see your pale Greek face; Tenderness Makes me eager as a little child to love you, You morsel left half-cold on Cæsar’s plate.