Sunday, September 22, 2013



Where the forest ends and where
    The meadow-lands begin,
There she tasted first of that,
    Which some despise as sin.

But she, transported by its joys,
    Beyond our mortal measures,
Surrendered to her lover and
    To all of coupling's pleasures.

For while some maidens find, in this,
    But little of enjoyment,
She hungered for its sustenance,
   And found, in it, fulfillment.

But when she'd feasted for a while
    On lover-kindled fire,
She found herself bereft – and burned
    With unfulfilled desire.

    2013 Sept. 22nd, Sun.

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