And a bright tin sieve
To hold your wine
And roses.

Portrait of a Lady in Bed

I. THE COVERLET

My cowardice
Covers me safely
From everything...

From cold, which makes me yield
And quietly die
Beneath the snow;

From heat, which makes me faint
Until cool nothingness receives me;

From hurt, (Seize me, O Lion,
And I shall die of fright
Before I feel your teeth!)

From love,
Yes, most of all from love.

How can love touch me?
Is it not heat,
Or cold,
Or a lion?