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MY fingers squeeze your fat, bent neck, and while
Your chignon yields and of itself falls down,
Your capsized eye-balls in your rapture drown,
Your lips half-open smile.


A hair-pin falls upon your shoulder now,
And sounds thin on the floor; your arms that beat
The air with strength exhausted, fondling meet
With naked wrists my brow.


And in the low room where your mirrow pales
The many-times repeated round-globed lamp,
Like a thick vapour in the air's warm damp
Your perfume floats, and stales.