Full faith I have she holds that rarest gift 
To beauty, Common Sense. To see her lie 
With her fair visage an inverted sky 
Bloom-covered, while the underlids uplift, 
Would almost wreck the faith; but when her mouth 
(Can it kiss sweetly? sweetly!) would address 
The inner me that thirsts for her no less, 
And has so long been languishing in drouth, 
I feel that I am matched; that I am man! 
One restless corner of my heart or head, 
That holds a dying something never dead, 
Still frets, though Nature giveth all she can. 
It means, that woman is not, I opine, 
Her sex's antidote. Who seeks the asp 
For serpent's bites? 'Twould calm me could I clasp 
Shrieking Bacchantes with their souls of wine!