12 
JEZEBEL 
Take me, or break me, slay or sooth to sleep, 
If only yours one hour, one perfect hour, 
Remembrance and despair and hope to steep 
 
In the infernal potion of that flower, 
My poisonous passion for your blood !  Behold ! 
How utterly I yield, how gladly dower 
 
Our sin with my own spirit’s quenched gold, 
Clothe Love with my own soul’s immortal power, 
Give thee my body as a fire to hold— 
O love, no words, no songs—your breast my 
bower !