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