Round her body, and I heard him gloat

On the favour. That instant I smote.

One! Two! Three! How the dancers swirl round!

He is here in the room, in my arm,

His limp body hangs on the spin

Of the waltz we are dancing, a swarm

Of blood-drops is hemming us in!

Round and round! One! Two! Three! And his sin

Is red like his tongue lolling warm.

One! Two! Three! And the drums are his knell.

He is heavy, his feet beat the floor

As I drag him about in the swell

Of the waltz. With a menacing roar,

The trumpets crash in through the door.

One! Two! Three! clangs his funeral bell.

One! Two! Three! In the chaos of space

Rolls the earth to the hideous glee

Of death! And so cramped is this place,

I stifle and pant. One! Two! Three!

Round and round! God! 'Tis he throttles me!

He has covered my mouth with his face!

And his blood has dripped into my heart!

And my heart beats and labours. One! Two!

Three! His dead limbs have coiled every part

Of my body in tentacles. Through

My ears the waltz jangles. Like glue

His dead body holds me athwart.

One! Two! Three! Give me air! Oh! My God!

One! Two! Three! I am drowning in slime!

One! Two! Three! And his corpse, like a clod,

Beats me into a jelly! The chime,

One! Two! Three! And his dead legs keep time.

Air! Give me air! Air! My God!

Clear, with Light, Variable Winds

The fountain bent and straightened itself

In the night wind,

Blowing like a flower.

It gleamed and glittered,

A tall white lily,

Under the eye of the golden moon.

From a stone seat,

Beneath a blossoming lime,

The man watched it.

And the spray pattered

On the dim grass at his feet.

The fountain tossed its water,

Up and up, like silver marbles.

Is that an arm he sees?

And for one moment

Does he catch the moving curve

Of a thigh?

The fountain gurgled and splashed,

And the man's face was wet.

Is it singing that he hears?

A song of playing at ball?

The moonlight shines on the straight column of water,

And through it he sees a woman,

Tossing the water-balls.

Her breasts point outwards,

And the nipples are like buds of peonies.

Her flanks ripple as she plays,

And the water is not more undulating

Than the lines of her body.

"Come," she sings, "Poet!

Am I not more worth than your day ladies,

Covered with awkward stuffs,

Unreal, unbeautiful?

What do you fear in taking me?

Is not the night for poets?

I am your dream,

Recurrent as water,

Gemmed with the moon!"

She steps to the edge of the pool

And the water runs, rustling, down her sides.

She stretches out her arms,

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