Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/114

 Thy mouth is made of fire and wine, Thy barren bosom takes my kiss And turns my soul to thine And turns thy lip to mine, And mine it is.

Thou hast a serpent in thine hair, In all the curls that close and cling; And ah, thy breast-flower! Ah love, thy mouth too fair To kiss and sting!

Cleave to me, love me, kiss mine eyes, Satiate thy lips with loving me; Nay, for thou shalt not rise; Lie still as Love that dies For love of thee.

Mine arms are close about thine head, My lips are fervent on thy face, And where my kiss hath fed Thy flower-like blood leaps red To the kissed place.

O bitterness of things too sweet! O broken singing of the dove Love's wings are over fleet, And like the panther's feet The feet of Love.