O Winter Aphrodite! (O acute, Ice-eating pains, thine arrows!) shivering By thy cold altar-stones, to thee I bring Thy myrtle with its Erebus-black fruit, Locked up, provocative, profoundly mute, Muter than snow or any melting thing, Muter than fall'n winds, or bird's dead wing, Secret as music of a fresh-struck lute Laid by a little while and yet for aye - By all that jealously thou dost enwomb, By Sappho's words hid of thee in a tomb, Pondered of thee where no man passeth by, Use thou my heart awhile for Love's own room, O Winter Aphrodite, ere I die! |