Thy lips do seem a falling whirlpool;
      They draw all twisting down within.
 Forgive my fleeting glance, I’m but a fool.
      I mean not my eyes to sin,
      Nor on thee lust thy flesh to win.

 Yet thy hair downward floweth in cascade
      Into my eyes’ open sight.
 Thou graspest thy locks to tie thy braid,
      But my heart instead thy might
      Hath tied up completely tight.

 Captive now by thy feminine whims –
      Know what power hast thou, my foe?
 What shall become of my soul that brimeth
      Over with sorrow and woe
      Mixed with bliss ever so slow?

 Yet, even then, when thou hast let me be,
      I can sip deep of thy sweet water
 That dripped from thy stark virality.
      By thee I’ve felt my life to stir;
      By thee my mind is now a blur. 

Featured image: ‘Woman on the Beach,’ by Eugene de Blaas

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