The Conspirator's Lament

My evening, my peace, O! Let me write from the well of your eye whose temple posts harsh beacons from far. I weep through you, I tremble you; your autumnal hair breathes on my chest! The hounds of love attend you almost loyally, ever unclean, heavy of heart. I yearn for your corruption. Your veil warms me to the viscera. My birthright, the land of my grandfathers, drags me by the hair to the baseness of virtue, the quotidian probity of the insipid spirit. Desecrate me, Beloved! Guide me, O my vernal lodestar! Would that night could trace the heart!