That nose is out of drawing. With a gasp, <br />She pants upon the passionate lips that ache <br />With the red drain of her own mouth, and make <br />A monochord of colour. Like an asp, <br />One lithe lock wriggles in his rutilant grasp. <br />Her bosom is an oven of myrrh, to bake <br />Love's white warm shewbread to a browner cake. <br />The lock his fingers clench has burst its hasp. <br />The legs are absolutely abominable. <br />Ah! what keen overgust of wild-eyed woes <br />Flags in that bosom, flushes in that nose? <br />Nay! Death sets riddles for desire to spell, <br />Responsive. What red hem earth's passion sews, <br />But may be ravenously unripped in hell?<br /><br />Algernon Charles Swinburne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/for-a-picture/
