Sonnet XXXVII
I wish you were the woman, I the man;
I’d get you over your sweet shudderings
In two such heartbeats as the cuckoo sings
His grace-notes in! I play the games I can
With eye and smile; but not in womanhood
Lies power to lay hands on you and break
Your frosty inhibitions; it would take
Centaurs’ force, transfusions of sun’s blood.
Call it your virtue if you like; but love
Once consummated, we recover from;
Not so, love starved forever. Thus you have,
With this device of coldness, made me tame;
Your whipped adoring bitch, your tethered slave
Led on the twin leashes of desire and shame.
A Naked Tree: Love Sonnets
