Snakes Bite

O Sweet rows of love and sorrow,
If I were not to be any form of myself,
Would thou love me still?

Or would the spring rose lose her gay fragrance;
The summer dove its will to fly, fly, fly? –
The heavens not half so joyous –

The Angels trice as bleak
Gaia drinks their monsoon tears
Like a sponge – wet one second; dry the next

I cannot lurve your elapid venom –
Two impudent wounds in the thigh
Like a ill-placed kiss – Nosferatu