106 
SLEEPING IN CARTHAGE 
 
 
 
 
SLEEPING IN CARTHAGE 
 
The month of thirst is ended.  From the lips 
That hide their blushes in the golden wood 
A fervent fountain amorously slips, 
The dainty rivers of thy luscious blood ;   
Red streams of sweet nepenthe that eclipse 
The milder nectar that the gods hold good— 
How my dry throat, held hard between thy hips, 
Shall drain the moon-wrought flow of womanhood ! 
 
Divinest token of sterility, 
Strange barren fountain blushing from the womb, 
Like to an echo of Augustan gloom  
When all men drank this wine ;  it maddens me 
With yearnings after new divinity, 
Prize of thy draught, some where beyond the tomb.