Sad painted flower cast unwist
Into life's lap, poor face that fate
Has mocked at, drunk to, smitten, kissed
Until I read the rune thereof
With more in it to love than hate
With more to pity than to love
What nights were yours?
What morns were theirs?
Whose sleep was incense, vital, rare
Burned into ashes unaware
Before your desecrated shrine
Your barren bosom freed their cares
Because its milk was bitter wine
Of all who loved and let you go
There was not one whose love impressed
Stamped upon your memory so
Their eyes out-sparkle all the rest
Of all the mouths your mouth has drained
Of all the breasts your breast has sought
And clung to, mad, desired, disdained
In that long catalogue of dole
Is there not one who something taught
In the salacious brutal school?
Over the lesson of the dark
Their soul embracing your lost soul?