As I went down the street in my rose-red pelerine

Some one stopped me and said, “Your lover is hurt.”

“Oh, bring him to me,” I said. “Oh, lay him between

My arms, let me cover him up in my skirt.”

And you—oh, see the myriad doves that walk

Beneath the steps of St. Paul’s! Catch several

And kill for Aphrodite. Don’t speak, do not talk!—

One of you kindle a fire to consume them withal.