Claude McKay


UPON thy purple mat thy body bare 
Is fine and limber like a tender tree. 
The motion of thy supple form is rare, 
Like a lithe panther lolling languidly, 
Toying and turning slowly in her lair. 
Oh, I would never ask for more of thee, 
Thou art so clean in passion and so fair. 
Enough! if thou wilt ask no more of me!

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