The Winged Beetle

CLYTIE 107 But where’s the ship the kicking mast, the plunging bow, the reeling hull Aching beneath the bacchant blast, malevolent and beauti- ful ? Ai ! Ai ! then where’s my man, my man ? I am a witch’s sieve to-night, Parched as the lusty Lesbian was for her savage lord, the light ! Ah ! couldst thou slay me and appease—though naught but slaughter serve my turn, I, in an hour that bring thee ease, fret the night’s silk and ache and burn. But now—my whole life stings in me ; a viper violates my veins ; Locusta laughs at Lalage ! a ghoul that sucks at her own brains ! Where is the ship ? Where is the ship ? Where is my man, my man, my man ? —Who gave thee power to rend and rip the hearty out from a courtezan ? I roved from town to town : I played the whore in every slimy stews. God ! I am like a moon-struck maid, easing her drought on sister dews.