Broken, broken, swinging lowly
bowed heads pray to a god asleep.
Does this golden winecup's edge
upon which her hair now rests,
and for which my lips want brief taste
hold but yet a drop for me?
I am but a weary sprit,
and your sins of touch and lust
and fire rain upon me.
How your sculptor's hand of flesh
so well curved your neck!
which calls the eye from neck to shoulder,
shoulder to arm, and in your hand
your sweet breast! a blossomed fruit
ever ripe and precious rare
I sigh, and hide my wistful want, for
I am not your god nor master
but mere, your blushing servant maid
a shadow wanting for your light.
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