Back to Index


by Claude McKay, 1922

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!

Published in Harlem Shadows

Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.