The Fountain Of Blood

My blood in waves seemssometimes to be spoutingas though in rhythmic sobsa fountain swooned.I hear its long, low, rushing sound till, doubting,i feel myself all overfor 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 reliefin precious winesto lull in me the fear that undermines,but found they sharpenedevery sense the more.I've also sought forgetfulness in lust,but love's a bed of needles, and they thrustto give more drink to each rapacious whore