Dark water: the moonless side of the trees:

The Dog-Star sweating in the roses: Mind

Heat-curdled to sheer flesh. For ease

And the sake of coolness, having dined,

I loose a button, wrench a stud.

We belch to the tune of drunk Moselle.

What a noise in the temples—hammering blood.

Shall we sit down? Are we altogether well?

‘How weedily the river exhales!’

‘Like the smell of caterpillar’s dung.’

‘You too collected?’ ‘When I was young,

But used no camphor; Moth prevails

Over moths, you take me.’ Sounding close,

But God knows where, two landrails scrape

Nails on combs. Her hair is loose,

One tendril astray upon the nape

Of a neck which star-revealed is white

Like an open-eyed tobacco-flower—

Frail thurible that fills the night

With the subtle intoxicating power

Of summer perfume. And you too—

Your scent intoxicates; the smell

Of clothes, of hair, the essence of you.

But for the ferments of Moselle.

I’ld swoon in the languor of your perfume,

In the drowsed delicious contemplation

Of a neck seen palely through the gloom.

Another hideous eructation.—

And I wake, distressingly aware

That there are uglier things in life

Than perfumed stars and women’s hair.—

Action, then, action! will you be my wife?