XXXVI
Precious Archer! The hand that pulls your arrow Is shaped by golden carpals
Drawn firmly back Taut abreast your wing, unquaking - And too, your bow string
Driven forward As by a hare's foot, or perhaps A swooning dove in air
[ Maddening arrow Frightful in purpose, ever unknown To we mere mortals -]
Eros, Almighty Lover! Entangle us like serpents In your holy delight
















