Sonnet Lxx: Poem by George Henry Boker

LXX

My lady's senses are so pure and fine,
She takes small pleasure in the close embrace
That love and nature in me coarsely trace
As the great end to which all hearts incline.
Her tender pity shames this heat of mine,
That bows her soul unto a lowly place,
To meet the cravings of my abject race,
With yielding smiles and patience all divine.
So much she suffers for her dear love's sake,
So much forgives, so calmly puts aside
Her own distaste, her stately virgin pride;
And all for me, who like a satyr slake
My brutish thirst within a crystal tide,
And stain it with the dusty stir I make!