The wind shook not in grass nor leaf,
I had lain down with Perfect Grief,
Not yet had come that angry thief
Night that gives Passion some relief.
I was more shaken than the grass,
I heard the voice of the winds that pass,
Then was unveiled Time's looking-glass,
The wan face of Herodias.
The sun was heavy with his heat,
His shadows lay upon my feet,
My blood within me began to beat.
The snake said: Where is the Serpent's meat?
