My blood in waves seems
sometimes to be spouting
as though in rhythmic sobs
a fountain swooned.
I hear its long, low, rushing sound till, doubting,
i feel myself all over
for the wound.


Across the town, as in the lists of battle,
it flows, transforming paving stones to isles,
slaking the thirst of creatures,
men, and cattle,
and colouring all nature red for miles.
Sometimes I've sought relief
in precious wines
to lull in me the fear that undermines,
but found they sharpened
every sense the more.
I've also sought forgetfulness in lust,
but love's a bed of needles, and they thrust
to give more drink to each rapacious whore