fury of early love
Lean youth ravished leaves here a husk-shell, the fruit mere starch stains in the casket, residues by the rind, and perfumes that trophy on the air. That which teemed into the tongue tastes no more of tender days nor blushes with the rush of perfect red through delved russetvein. The Lust is liage atop a heavily purple bruise, the sabled gules of which youth embroiders, hastes for the brand which rescinds of itself in healing, and leaves not the slightest relief to the infernal leasings of the soon. For their pluraled passion it settled in the rust soils, black cords of bitter grain which grew only inward, and yielded never the seed to the host, nor ever wombed a carnal root. Of that vigour gone, a raucous wind reverbs across its shallow palm, and a aforth its gourd, an arced shell of dark light.