White Stains

102 VICTORY As swords that flash forget the rust That clings them round, as fighting men Forget their wounds, with no distrust Of death. Yea, dust may turn to dust, Man’s spirit to his God again, But memory cannot fade, and while My hot devouring kisses rain On thy worn face, in writhing pain Biting my lips, that fiercely smile As tigers’ lips, and gnaw thy mouth, Till the blood spurts in dainty style And blinds and bruises me awhile, Yet satiates the awful drouth ; I suck, and shudder, and rave, and clutch, Thy breasts, with wounds and sores uncouth, Drenched with diseases of the south, The hot south lands, where crooked crutch, The leprous arm, the withered hand, Bear sway, where thou wast nurtured, such A queen as men delight to touch.