Somewhat in the Greek Manner

Do not come, contentment.
To shackle me with ease,
Who would laugh so at the words:
“This lady is for burning.”
Although the bed teems with ashes,
Behind the rumpled lashes of my love’s eyes
New desire kindles.

Do not come, contentment.
Serenity long precedes you,
Waging her cool war in my blood.
Surely she’ll not forsake me now if I wish
Respite from living.
When, with his arms too hotly screwed about my neck, I crave
Brief gray Athenian lapses.