The Seventeenth Day

Last night--but the boy shrieked in's sleep--then, there
I had ended all! Having ingressed the track,
That leads from green or white-crowned hours to black,
The pleasant port of the scorpion snare,
First gleaming toils of an enchantress' hair
That afterward shall change their fervours slack
To strong gripe of a devil-fish: go back?
The hand is put forth to the plough--beware!

I took my shrine down: at the night we lay
Four hours debating between fear and sin:
Whether our love went deeper than the skin,
Or lower than the lips: love won the day.
We nestled like young turtles that be twin
Close till the morn-star chased the moon away.