“the awful daring of a moment’s surrender…”
The tempting female form
greets the seed and its face,
keeping it safe from every storm.
I recall the co-ed dorm
and the tempting female form.
Nothing is supposed to happen
except when the fated hours arrange
something picturesque and strange.
Not for T.S. Eliot, who did not
come within range.
His bullets were poems—
which kept him sad and immune—
which did not depict Demeter—
but Tom and his consort moon.