 | English Roses |  |
IN THE ROUGH.
None of your angels, Priest, for me;
But ripeness real and human,
Voluptuous limbs and graces free—
A blood—and—fleshly woman!
I am sick of all your pious paint
And cheap hysteric purity.
The raptures of the writhing saint—
A fig for church futurity.
Give me the naked bust, and charms
Not coy nor yet too clamorous:
The hanging breasts and heavy arms,
And kisses bold and amorous.
But ripeness real and human,
Voluptuous limbs and graces free—
A blood—and—fleshly woman!
I am sick of all your pious paint
And cheap hysteric purity.
The raptures of the writhing saint—
A fig for church futurity.
Give me the naked bust, and charms
Not coy nor yet too clamorous:
The hanging breasts and heavy arms,
And kisses bold and amorous.
What, do you blame me, reverend Priest,
With all your paid-for patter?
Man is half brother to the beast,
And more than three parts matter.
He loves his dishes full and hot
Not virtues vegetarian.
And if he has an angel's lot
The angel is Tartarean.
So let me rollick, while I may,
With woman of like leaven,
And make the best of mortal clay—
I am nearer earth than Heaven.
With all your paid-for patter?
Man is half brother to the beast,
And more than three parts matter.
He loves his dishes full and hot
Not virtues vegetarian.
And if he has an angel's lot
The angel is Tartarean.
So let me rollick, while I may,
With woman of like leaven,
And make the best of mortal clay—
I am nearer earth than Heaven.
| English Roses | |