pgms » posted to motd
Drink we the lusty robbers twain, // Black is the pitch o’ their wedding dress, // Lips shrunk back for the wind’s caress // As lips shrink back when we feel the strain // Of love that loveth in hell’s disdeign, // And sense the teeth through the lips that press // ’Gainst our lips for the soul’s distress // That striveth to ours across the pain.
O mind your feet, O mind your feet, // Keep dancing like a wave, // And under every dancer // A dead man in his grave. ‎- pgms
Soul, if She meet us there, will any rumour // Of havens more high and courts desirable // Lure us beyond the cloudy peak of Riva? ‎- pgms