The Fountain of Blood My blood in waves seems sometimes to be spouting As though in rhythmic sobs a fountain swooned I hear its long, low, rushing sound till, doubting I feel myself all over for the wound Across the town, as in the lists of battle It flows, transforming paving stones to isles Slaking the thirst of creatures, men, and cattle
And colouring all nature red for miles Sometimes I've sought relief in precious wines To lull in me the fear that undermines But found they sharpened every sense the more I've also sought forgetfulness in lust But love's a bed of needles, and they thrust To give more drink to each rapacious who*e