The Throbbing Pillow

I passed him the cup, while night drew its train behind it —
a tawny wine like musk fresh-opened, fragrant;
and I clasped him as the warrior clasps his sword,
his two long locks like sword-belts on my shoulder;
until, when drowsiness bent him low,
I moved him a little away — and he was embracing me —
I drew him back from ribs that long for him,
so that he should not sleep upon a throbbing pillow.