Lines From the Latin

She is fair young poet she is newly fair
That muse of yours who with her liquid limbs
Embraces all your senses, winds her bright
Bold hair to taunt your wild eyes, turns
your love
To sorrow plowing in your great white bones,
And like a summer burns you back again
To worship in the morning. Hide your eyes,
She whispers in your ear and howls you deaf
With shoutings and with summons. Have you
There has not been a poet old enough
To keep his peace from passion? You will lie
Alone again only when you die.
If then, at that.
Sometimes my speechless bones
Plague me with a longing for a wind
To sing them like a woman, and my soul
Recites a soundless poem in me still.