Her head dress'd with thought, like uncurling smoke,
Or hands shiv'ring 'neath a gown's guilding folds,
Such hands! As fierce, or as tender as Gould's
Unable to shift the bind of thy yoke.
Apollo knows less of barren desire,
Striking a chord: on swift bow or sweet lyre.
Kneeling t'wards Nature, t'wards laurel and oak
Limbs asway, conducting proverbial winds,
The Raptures! The Sins! To repent, amend!
Ah, this Love! What then, Ferocity spoke
Unto the young mind, caught in Rhythm's time,
By winged Music! Soars Triumph and Rhyme!
If she not, moved by visions of Song,
Wicked, Thou Innocence, Plague of all wrong!
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It's Salvation that you want.
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