She touches me, and I am of desire.
Torn apart, thoughts scattered to the wind,
Save one possessing thought that burns my soul:
Of her whose song is made of Dragon fire.
She skims my soul with skin and eyes and scent;
And though the world itself be falling down,
My mind and body, both, know only her
On whose each motion my attention’s spent,
My habit, and my best habiliment,
For I am of desire when she comes round.