Till the acrid hour aches out and ceases,
⁠And the sheathed eyeball sleepier swims,
The deep flank smoothes its dimpling creases,
⁠And passion loosens all the limbs:

Till dreams of sharp grey north-sea weather
⁠Fall faint upon your fiery sleep,
As on strange sands a strayed bird's feather
⁠The wind may choose to lose or keep.

But I, who leave my queen of panthers,
⁠As a tired honey-heavy bee
Gilt with sweet dust from gold-grained anthers
⁠Leaves the rose-chalice, what for me?

From the ardours of the chaliced centre,
⁠From the amorous anthers' golden grime,
That scorch and smutch all wings that enter,
⁠I fly forth hot from honey-time.