Whispers of Immortality
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ebster was much possessed by deathAnd saw the skull beneath the skin;And breastless creatures under groundLeaned backward with a lipless grin. Daffodil bulbs instead of ballsStared from the sockets of the eyes!He knew that thought clings round dead limbsTightening its lusts and luxuries. Donne, I suppose, was such anotherWho found no substitute for sense;To seize and clutch and penetrate,Expert beyond experience, He knew the anguish of the marrowThe ague of the skeleton;No contact possible to fleshAllayed the fever of the bone. . . . . . Grishkin is nice: her Russian eyeIs underlined for emphasis;Uncorseted, her friendly bustGives promise of pneumatic bliss. The couched Brazilian jaguarCompels the scampering marmosetWith subtle effluence of cat;Grishkin has a maisonette; The sleek Brazilian jaguarDoes not in its arboreal gloomDistil so rank a feline smellAs Grishkin in a drawing-room. And even the Abstract EntitiesCircumambulate her charm;But our lot crawls between dry ribsTo keep our metaphysics warm.
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