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O, what shall drown thee, o knight of arms

That stretch beneath my savage cloth,

And glee a feather eagle from harm

With hands that greet ye of soft.

But do not drown, my knight of arms

Of struggle snuff that begs thee

To quarrel from thy seasonal charm

To starve thyself of imagery.

I see a thorn in thy iris eye

That serves soil to her precious land

With shades of gray that try

To outlast thy unfurnished hand.

I sought to fail thy desire of need

Minded greed to a merry drink

A thirst to drown from drowsy deed

And coldness lips of pink.

I kiss thee with lips of cursed shrill

That touch to shiver my spirit thus

Of service to thy soul with eyes that thrill

My flu that quivers thy moon to rust.

I mate with thee with flowers and girth

And paint thy soul to my nourished eyes,

Look, but not with eyes that deserve

A pale glance for beauty’s heavenly birth.