The stars are forth, the moon above the tops
Of the snow-shining mountains — Beautiful!
I linger yet with Nature, for the night
Has been to me a more familiar face
Than that of man; and in her starry shade
Of dim and solitary loveliness,
I learn’d the language of another world …
Just the merest flutter of temptation
would make a courtesan or a scholar
or a saint wanton, shameless. Lord Byron
knew this. In his Manfred the dead sister
is a symbol of impossible lust.
The mist on the mountain and on the moon
hint at pathways few dare to take. Disgust
is just regret turned in on itself. Soon
the fog of lustfulness, the tempest’s scar,
the night’s charioteer, will come for you.
If you love me, give in, though I am far
away, give in to what we both would do.
You, who are neither nun nor sorceress,
be my sister, my taboo, my lewdness.
I had a terrible
by Lord Byron’s
a dark hairless
upon the cresting waters.”
I, too, am a child
I just wish
you had had more
I can’t help
that I am
of river clay,
but you – you
kept finding fault
in my dreams
in this breathing
I loved you,