So hot within, and burning of its own;
Can this exist? Such mystery! So much
Doth this incalesence my hand alight.
Do this I feel? Or this I thrill to touch?
Such taste! Once cool, luxuriantly grown!
Now serous, thawed, deliciously beset;
And dripping wild implore, and sweet delight,
This form doth crave me, sybaritic, wet:
As poised, and shook, reverberating! Prone
Beneath my fingers: arch, and push, and curve;
And sparkling like crystal with excite,
So shot with lightning’s fire, every nerve…
Then cool… this down of twilight, quiet shone;
Where she is mine this night, and mine alone.