Training

[heart_of_sword]

Not this week nor this month dare I lie down
In languor under lime trees or smile.
Love must not kiss my face pale that is brown.

My lips, panting, shall drink space, mile by mile;
Strong meats be all my hunger; my reknown
Be the clean beauty of speed and pride of style.

Cold winds encountered on the racing Down
Shall thrill my heated bareness; but awhile
None else may meet me till I wear my crown.

BBS