A skipping swallow, you of fleeting grace.
The merest echo of your lips, your face,
could still my breath.
Your taut and long black silken hair,
dark rope, that leaves me hanging here.
The necklace that falls down before your neck,
could break my own, in hoping for a peek.
You lap a flit of flame, I'm kindle caught,
thrown hard and buckling on the limbs of thought.