HE
read her smiling face
in
Flora’s alphabet,
he
found her body’s grace
O,
surpassingly set
songs
heard among
an
unheard song.
And
the saint he thought fear-fraught:
She
is a thing of evil,
a
daughter of the devil.
From
her cutexed toes up
to
her marcelled head,
she
is a gaudy cup
of
Bordeaux ruby red;
-bane
to the core,
beyond
all lore!-
And
the sinner he thought unwrought:
My
back is bared for the rod,
if
she isn’t a daughter of god.