Your rich flesh minds me of the centauresses,
Whose arms Paul Rubens rounded in his dyes
Of fire beneath a weight of sun-washed tresses,
Pointing their breasts to lion-cubs' green eyes.
Your blood was theirs, when in the mazy gloaming,
Under some star that bit the brazen sky,
They heard a stranger in the sea-fog roaming,
And hailed some Hercules astray and shy;
And when with quivering senses hot for kisses,
And belly for the unknown gaping, their
Arms they were twisting, calling to mad blisses
Huge, swarthy eaters of rut on a body bare.