POEMS BY ISAAC ROSENBERG
You small at the roots like grass;
While the new lips my spirit would kiss
Were not red lips of flesh,
But the huge kiss of power?
Where yesterday soft hair through my fingers fell
A shaggy mane would entwine;
And no slim form work fire to my thighs,
But human Life's inarticulate mass
Throb the pulse of a thing
Whose mountain flanks awry
Beg my mastery—mine !
Ah! I will ride the dizzy beast of the world
My road—my way.
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