Come, my meticulous, intellectual love,
And lie beside me in this secret bower,
Where fragrant Woodbine blossoms grow above,
And on each side bloom those of Passion Flower;
Oh, let these lips unload thy heavy head,
These balmy fingers smooth thy furrowed brow;
This heart restore thine own which, all but dead,
Disdained and left behind the here and now.
The robin singing in some leafy tree
Knows better far than thou that life is good;
He trills with utter joy, though unlike thee
He has no mate as yet within this wood.
So kiss my breasts, embrace my burning thighs;
Stoke up the flame that tongues the secret part,
Enjoy the warmth herein before it dies,
And lose thyself for now in the womb’s great heart.
Jerusalem
26 January 2003