V

Now will her grave of untorn maidenhood Be dug in her small blood. Assemble ye at that glad funeral And weave her scarlet pall, O pinings for the flesh of man that often Did her secret hours soften And take her willing and unwilling hand Where pleasure starteth up. Come forth, ye moted gnomes, unruly band, That come so quick ye spill your brimming cup; Ye that make youth young and flesh nice And the glad spring and summer sun arise; Ye by whose secret presence the trees grow Green, and the flowers bud, and birds sing free, When with the fury of a trembling glow The bull climbs on the heifer mightily!