A Kiss. — Sappho to Phaon
I.
S
weet mouth! O let me take
One draught from that delicious cup!
The hot Sahara-thirst to slake
That burns me up!
II.
Sweet breath!—all flowers that are,
Within that darling frame must bloom;
My heart revives so at the rare
Divine perfume!
III.
—Nay, ’t is a dear deceit,
A drunkard’s cup that mouth of thine;
Sure poison-flowers are breathing, sweet,
That fragrance fine!
IV.
I drank—the drink betrayed me
Into a madder, fiercer fever;
The scent of those love-blossoms made me
More faint than ever!
V.
Yet though quick death it were
That rich heart-vintage I must drain,
And quaff that hidden garden’s air,
Again—again!