Classic Poem

Thou trembling lamb, round whom I move and move
In ever smaller circles day by day,
Watching thy every motion: let none say
I love thee not, — more than my heaven above!

Oh, there is nothing like the panting love
With which the tigress closes round her prey!
Men call it hate; I call it love at play;
The yearning of the viper for the dove.

When thou art dead, I'll come, be not afraid,
And feel the softness of thy braids of gold,
The roundness of thy throat that so sweet sang;

And I shall feel, when once my hand is laid
Upon thy breast, and finds it clammy cold,
Each nail become a claw, each tooth a fang.