Kiss III

“One little kiss, sweet maid!” I cry,
And round my neck your arms you twine!
Your luscious lips of crimson dye
With rapturous haste encounter mine.

But quick those lips my lips forsake,
With wanton, tantalizing jest;
So starts some rustic from the snake
Beneath his heedless footstep prest.

Is this to grant the wished-for kiss?
Ah! no, my love,—’tis but to fire
The bosom with a transient bliss,
Inflaming unallayed desire.