The Lovers (poem)

Nude, she leads him to her garden green,
Her upturned face, her eyes, sustaining lights
Where fiery fruits are born incarnadine.

What matters that flesh should act the libertine,
Its ephemeral grasp so graspingly infinite?
Nude, she leads him to her garden green.

For our play is but passion's purple, amaranthine,
Is but a green, green dance of mortal delight
Where fiery fruits are born incarnadine.

So let us play our hearts' tamborine
And thrum the limbs' strings far into the night:
Nude, she leads him to her garden green.

For when sybarites sate into epicenes,
Then comes the genesis of some second sight
Where fiery fruits are born incarnadine,

So you will take my hand, and your sybilline
Touch feel out our soul, the hermaphrodite:
Nude she leads him to her garden green
Where fiery fruits are born incarnadine.