Upon the sinking hour of shadow's roil,
The crowning light still steeps my tongue in brine,
From rheumy eyes that purl past lips to soil,
Lest your citrine sun fall to sapless dwine;
These mordant tears that kiss my fretted cheek
Are squander'd not in spoils of fallow loam,
But bathe the burnished tilth their spring buds seek
Till nectar pools within your golden comb.
With hands of mel, you ply the ochred whorl,
Then draw its leaf cordate 'round welkin's hearth.
Our flow’ring breath; sinks 'midst your damson querl
Of billow'd hair, to ripen in the garth.
My weary brow yields up its moiling sigh,
To crown, in dear repose, your mellow thigh.
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 6:33 PM UTC
Upon the sinking hour of shadow's roil,
The crowning light still steeps my tongue in brine,
From rheumy eyes that purl past lips to soil,
Lest your citrine sun fall to sapless dwine;
These mordant tears that kiss my fretted cheek
Are squander'd not in spoils of fallow loam,
But bathe the burnished tilth their spring buds seek
Till nectar pools within your golden comb.
With hands of mel, you ply the ochred whorl,
Then draw its leaf cordate 'round welkin's hearth.
Our flow’ring breath; sinks 'midst your damson querl
Of billow'd hair, to ripen in the garth.
My weary brow yields up its moiling sigh,
To crown, in dear repose, your mellow thigh.
