R. P. Blackmur
ALL'S THE FOUL FIEND'S
Now in the fond unhappiness of sleep,
Again
in
that fonder dark, the waiting chair,
Time upon time, there mounts through my own deep
Honey of agony to tongueless prayer.
Both forearms ache, then lift and circling woo
(A yearn of fondest flesh) towards vivid stone
Waist to close knees. I am Pygmalion, I too,
And uncreate with what I would atone.
o
viewless face, unseen 0 rose and wine,
o
torso spoiled, plunder of damaged will,
All fades in my embrace: the sweet too fine
For flesh turns stone: the wraith of unused skill.
-These, alas these limbs I woo, infatuate
And constant, till the fiend fouls me and I create.
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