THE KISS IN POETRY.

Now gentle Sleep hath closèd up those eyes Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts in awe; And free access unto that sweet lip lies, From whence I long the rosy breath to draw. Methinks no wrong it were if I should steal, From those two melting rubies, one poor kiss; None sees the theft that would the theft reveal, Nor rob I her of aught that she can miss: Nay, should I twenty kisses take away, There would be little sign I would do so; Why then should I this robbery delay? Oh! she may wake, and therewith angry grow! Well, if she do, I’ll back restore that one, And twenty hundred thousand more for loan. George Wither.

1. Among thy fancies, tell me this: What is the thing we call a kiss? 2. I shall resolve ye what it is: It is a creature born and bred Between the lips, all cherry red; By love and warm desires fed; Chor. And makes more soft the bridal bed. It is an active flame that flies First to the babies of the eyes, And charms them there with lullabies; Chor. And stills the bride too when she cries: Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear, It frisks, and flies,—now here, now there; ’Tis now far off, and then ’tis near; Chor. And here, and there, and everywhere. 1. Has it a speaking virtue?—2. Yes. 1. How speaks it, say?—2. Do you but this, Part your joined lips, then speaks your kiss; Chor. And this love’s sweetest language is. 1. Has it a body?—2. Ay, and wings, With thousand rare encolorings; And as it flies, it gently sings, Chor. Love honey yields, but never stings. Robert Herrick.

Steer hither, steer your wingèd pines, All beaten mariners: Here lie undiscovered mines A prey to passengers; Perfumes far sweeter than the best Which make the phœnix urn and nest; Fear not your ships, Nor any to oppose you save our lips; But come on shore, Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more. For swelling waves, our panting breasts, Where never storms arise, Exchange; and be awhile our guests; For stars, gaze on our eyes; The compass, Love shall hourly sing, And, as he goes about the ring, We will not miss To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. Browne: Inner Temple Masque.

Oh that a joy so soon should waste! Or so sweet a bliss As a kiss Might not forever last! So sugared, so melting, so soft, so delicious, The dew that lies on roses, When the morn herself discloses, Is not so precious. Oh, rather than I would it smother, Were I to taste such another, It should be my wishing That I might die kissing. Ben Jonson.

Thou more than most sweet glove, Unto my more sweet love, Suffer me to store with kisses This empty lodging that now misses The pure rosy hand that wore thee, Whiter than the kid that bore thee. Thou art soft, but that was softer; Cupid’s self hath kissed it ofter Than e’er he did his mother’s doves, Supposing her the queen of loves, That was thy mistress, Best of gloves. Ben Jonson.

For Love’s sake, kiss me once again; I long, and should not beg in vain; Here’s none to spy or see: Why do you doubt or stay? I’ll taste as lightly as the bee, That doth but touch his flower and flies away. Once more, and, faith, I will be gone: Can he that loves ask less than one? Nay, you may err in this, And all your bounty wrong: This could be called but half a kiss; What we’ve but once to do, we should do long. I will but mend the last, and tell Where, how, it would have relished well; Join lip to lip, and try; Each suck the other’s breath, And, whilst our tongues perplexed lie, Let who will think us dead, or wish our death. Ben Jonson.

One kind kiss before we part, Drop a tear, and bid adieu: Though we sever, my fond heart, Till we meet, shall pant for you. Yet, yet weep not so, my love, Let me kiss that falling tear: Though my body must remove, All my soul will still be here. All my soul, and all my heart, And every wish shall pant for you; One kind kiss, then, ere we part, Drop a tear, and bid adieu. Dodsley.

What a rout do you make for a single sweet kiss! I seized it, ’tis true, and I ne’er shall repent it. May he ne’er enjoy one who shall think ’twas amiss; But for me, I thank dear Cytherea who sent it. You may pout, and look prettily cross; but, I pray, What business so near to my lips had your cheek? If you will put temptation so pat in one’s way, Saints, resist if you can; but for me, I’m too weak. But come, dearest Delia, our quarrel let’s end; Nor will I by force, what you gave not, retain. By allowing the kiss I’m forever your friend; If you say that I stole it,—why, take it again. Horace Walpole.

Ines sent a kiss to me, While we danced upon the green: Let that kiss a blessing be, And conceal no woes unseen. How I dared I know not now,— While we danced, I gently said, Smiling, “Give me, lovely maid, Give me one sweet kiss!”—when, lo! Gathering blushes robed her brow, And, with love and fear afraid, Thus she spoke: “I’ll send the kiss In a calmer day of bliss.” Then I cried, “Dear maid! what day Can be half so sweet as this? Throw not hopes and joys away; Send, oh, send the promised kiss! Can so bright a gift be mine, Bought without a pang of pain? ’Tis perchance a ray divine, Darker night to bring again. “Could I dwell on such a thought, I of very joy should die; Naught of earth’s enjoyments, naught, Could be like that ecstasy. I will pay her interest meet, When her lips shall breathe on me, And for every kiss so sweet Give her many more than three.”

My ornaments are arms, My pastime is in war, My bed is cold upon the wold, My lamp yon star. My journeyings are long, My slumbers short and broken; From hill to hill I wander still, Kissing thy token. I ride from land to land, I sail from sea to sea: Some day more kind I fate may find, Some night kiss thee!

Upon a tree there mounted guard A veteran cock, adroit and cunning; When to the roots a fox up running Spoke thus, in tones of kind regard: “Our quarrel, brother, ’s at an end; Henceforth I hope to live your friend; For peace now reigns Throughout the animals’ domains. I bear the news. Come down, I pray, And give me the embrace fraternal; And please, my brother, don’t delay: So much the tidings do concern all, That I must spread them far to-day. Now you and yours can take your walks Without a fear or thought of hawks; And should you clash with them or others, In us you’ll find the best of brothers;— For which you may, this joyful night, Your merry bonfires light. But, first, let’s seal the bliss With one fraternal kiss.” “Good friend,” the cock replied, “upon my word, A better thing I never heard; And doubly I rejoice To hear it from your voice: And, really, there must be something in it, For yonder come two greyhounds, who, I flatter Myself, are couriers on this very matter; They come so fast, they’ll be here in a minute. I’ll down, and all of us will seal the blessing With general kissing and caressing.” “Adieu,” said fox; “my errand’s pressing; I’ll hurry on my way, And we’ll rejoice some other day.” So off the fellow scampered, quick and light, To gain the fox-holes of a neighboring height,— Less happy in his stratagem than flight. The cock laughed sweetly in his sleeve;— ’Tis doubly sweet deceiver to deceive.

As, dancing o’er the enamelled plain, The floweret of the virgin train, My soul’s Corinna, lightly played, Young Cupid saw the graceful maid; He saw, and in a moment flew, And round her neck his arms he threw, And said, with smiles of infant joy, “Oh! kiss me, mother, kiss thy boy!” Unconscious of a mother’s name, The modest virgin blushed with shame; And, angry Cupid scarce believing That vision could be so deceiving, Thus to mistake his Cyprian dame, The little infant blushed with shame. “Be not ashamed, my boy,” I cried, For I was lingering by his side; “Corinna and thy lovely mother, Believe me, are so like each other That clearest eyes are oft betrayed, And take thy Venus for the maid.”

There came three students over the Rhine: Dame Werter’s house they entered in: “Dame Werter, hast thou good beer and wine And where’s that lovely daughter of thine?” “My beer and my wine are fresh and clear, My daughter is lying cold on her bier.” They stepped within the chamber of rest, Where shrined lay the maiden, in black robes dressed. The first he drew from her face the veil: “Ah! wert thou alive, thou maiden so pale,” He said, as he gazed with saddened brow, “How dearly would I love thee now!” The second he covered the face anew, And, weeping, he turned aside from the view: “Ah me, that thou liest on the cold bier, The one I have loved for so many a year!” The third once more uplifted the veil: He kissed the lips so deadly pale; “Thee loved I ever, still love I thee, And thee will I love through eternity.” And that kiss—that kiss—with Promethean flame Thrilled with new life the quivering frame; And the maid uprose, and stood by his side, That student’s own loved and loving bride!

On a bank of flowers, in a summer day, For summer lightly drest, The youthful, blooming Nelly lay, With love and sleep opprest; When Willie, wandering through the wood, Who for her favor oft had sued, He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed, And trembled where he stood. Her closèd eyes, like weapons sheathed, Were sealed in soft repose; Her lip, still as she fragrant breathed, It richer dyed the rose. The springing lilies sweetly prest, Wild-wanton, kissed her rival breast: He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed, His bosom ill at rest. Her robes, light-waving in the breeze, Her tender limbs embrace, Her lovely form, her native ease, All harmony and grace: Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, A faltering, ardent kiss he stole: He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed, And sighed his very soul. As flies the partridge from the brake On fear-inspirèd wings, So Nelly, starting, half awake, Away affrighted springs: But Willie followed,—as he should; He overtook her in the wood: He vowed, he prayed, he found the maid Forgiving all and good. Burns.

CHORUS. I’ll kiss thee yet, yet, And I’ll kiss thee o’er again, And I’ll kiss thee yet, yet, My bonnie Peggy Alison! Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, I ever mair defy them, O! Young kings upon their hansel throne Are no sae blest as I am, O! When in my arms, wi’ a’ thy charms, I clasp my countless treasure, O! I seek nae mair o’ heaven to share Than sic a moment’s pleasure, O! And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, I swear I’m thine forever, O! And on thy lips I seal my vow, And break it shall I never, O! Burns.

Behave yoursel’ afore folk, And dinna be sae rude to me As kiss me sae afore folk. It’s no through hatred o’ a kiss That I sae plainly tell you this; But ah! I tak’ it sae amiss To be sae teased afore folk. Behave yoursel’ afore folk; When we’re alane, ye may tak’ ane, But ne’er a ane afore folk. Ye tell me that my face is fair; It may be sae,—I dinna care,— But ne’er again gar ’t blush sae sair As ye hae dune afore folk. Ye tell me that my lips are sweet: Sic tales, I doubt, are a deceit; At any rate, it’s hardly meet To pree their sweets afore folk. But, gin you really do insist That I should suffer to be kissed, Gae get a license frae the priest, And mak’ me yours afore folk; Behave yourself afore folk, And when we’re ane, baith flesh and bane, Ye may tak’ ten afore folk.

They looked up to the sky, whose floating glow Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright; They gazed upon the glittering sea below, Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight; They heard the waves splash, and the wind so low, And saw each other’s dark eyes darting light Into each other—and, beholding this, Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss; A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love, And beauty, all concentrating like rays Into one focus, kindled from above; Such kisses as belong to early days, When heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move, And the blood’s lava, and the pulse a blaze, Each kiss a heart-quake,—for a kiss’s strength, I think, it must be reckoned by its length. By length I mean duration; theirs endured Heaven knows how long—no doubt they never reckoned; And if they had, they could not have secured The sum of their sensations to a second: They had not spoken; but they felt allured, As if their souls and lips each other beckoned, Which being joined, like swarming bees they clung— Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey sprung. Byron.

Away with your fictions of flimsy romance, Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove! Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, Or the rapture that dwells on the first kiss of love! Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow, Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove, From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love! If Apollo should e’er his assistance refuse, Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove, Invoke them no more; bid adieu to the muse, And try the effect of the first kiss of love. I hate you, ye cold compositions of art; Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove, I court the effusions that spring from the heart Which throbs with delight at the first kiss of love. Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes, Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move: Arcadia displays but a region of dreams: What are visions like these to the first kiss of love? Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth, From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove: Some portion of Paradise still is on earth, And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past,— For years fleet away with the wings of the dove,— The dearest remembrance will still be the last, Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love. Byron.

Give me, my love, that billing kiss I taught you one delicious night, When, turning epicures in bliss, We tried inventions of delight. Come, gently steal my lips along, And let your lips in murmurs move; Ah, no!—again—that kiss was wrong: How can you be so dull, my love? “Cease, cease!” the blushing girl replied,— And in her milky arms she caught me; “How can you thus your pupil chide? You know ’twas in the dark you taught me!” Moore.

Grow to my lip, thou sacred kiss, On which my soul’s beloved swore That there should come a time of bliss When she would mock my hopes no more; And fancy shall thy glow renew, In sighs at morn, and dreams at night, And none shall steal thy holy dew Till thou’rt absolved by rapture’s rite. Sweet hours that are to make me blest, Oh! fly, like breezes, to the goal, And let my love, my more than soul, Come panting to this fevered breast; And while in every glance I drink The rich o’erflowings of her mind, Oh! let her all impassioned sink, In sweet abandonment resigned, Blushing for all our struggles past, And murmuring, “I am thine at last!” Moore.

When infant Bliss in roses slept, Cupid upon his slumber crept, And, while a balmy sigh he stole, Exhaling from the infant’s soul, He smiling said, “With this, with this I’ll scent my Julia’s burning kiss!” Nay, more: he stole to Venus’ bed, Ere yet the sanguine flush had fled Which Love’s divinest, dearest flame Had kindled through her panting frame. Her soul still dwelt on memory’s themes, Still floated in voluptuous dreams; And every joy she felt before In slumber now was acting o’er. From her ripe lips, which seemed to thrill As in the war of kisses still, And amorous to each other clung, He stole the dew that trembling hung, And smiling said, “With this, with this I’ll bathe my Julia’s burning kiss!” Moore.

“Mon âme sur ma lèvre était lors tout entière, Pour savourer le miel qui sur la vôtre était; Mais en me retirant, elle resta derrière, Tant de ce doux plaisir l’amorce l’arrêtoit!” Voiture.

How heavenly was the poet’s doom, To breathe his spirit through a kiss, And lose within so sweet a tomb The trembling messenger of bliss! And, ah! his soul returned to feel That it again could ravished be; For in the kiss that thou didst steal, His life and soul have fled to thee! Moore.

One kiss, dear maid, I said, and sighed; Your scorn the little boon denied. Ah, why refuse the blameless bliss? Can danger lurk within a kiss? Yon viewless wanderer of the vale, The spirit of the western gale, At morning’s break, at evening’s close, Inhales the sweetness of the rose, And hovers o’er th’ uninjured bloom, Sighing back the soft perfume. Her nectar-breathing kisses fling Vigor to the zephyr’s wing, And she the glitter of the dew Scatters on the rose’s hue. Bashful, lo! she bends her head, And darts a blush of deeper red. Too well those lovely lips disclose The triumphs of the opening rose: O fair! O graceful! bid them prove As passive to the breath of love! In tender accents, faint and low, Well pleased I hear the whispered “No!” The whispered “No!” how little meant, Sweet falsehood that endears consent! For on those lovely lips the while Dawns the soft relenting smile, And tempts, with feigned dissuasive coy, The gentle violence of the joy. Coleridge.

Love thy mother, little one! Kiss and clasp her neck again: Hereafter she may have a son Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. Love thy mother, little one! Gaze upon her living eyes, And mirror back her love for thee: Hereafter thou mayst shudder sighs To meet them when they cannot see. Gaze upon her living eyes! Press her lips the while they glow With love that they have often told: Hereafter thou mayst press in woe And kiss them till thine own are cold. Press her lips the while they glow! Oh, revere her raven hair! Although it be not silver-gray, Too early death, led on by care, May snatch save one dear lock away. Oh, revere her raven hair! Pray for her at eve and morn, That Heaven may long the stroke defer; For thou mayst live the hour forlorn When thou wilt ask to die with her. Pray for her at eve and morn! Thomas Hood.

My heart is beating with all things that are, My blood is wild unrest; With what a passion pants yon eager star Upon the water’s breast! Clasped in the air’s soft arms the world doth sleep; Asleep its moving seas, its humming lands; With what a hungry lip the ocean deep Lappeth forever the white-breasted sands! What love is in the moon’s eternal eyes, Leaning unto the earth from out the midnight skies! Thy large dark eyes are wide upon my brow, Filled with as tender light As yon low moon doth fill the heavens now, This mellow autumn night! On the late flowers I linger at thy feet; I tremble when I touch thy garment’s rim; I clasp thy waist, I feel thy bosom’s beat,— Oh, kiss me into faintness sweet and dim! Thou leanest to me as a swelling peach, Full-juiced and mellow, leaneth to the taker’s reach. Thy hair is loosened by that kiss you gave; It floods my shoulders o’er; Another yet! Oh, as a weary wave Subsides upon the shore, My hungry being, with its hopes, its fears, My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest, Yet strong as is despair, as weak as tears, Doth faint upon thy breast! I feel thy clasping arms, my cheek is wet With thy rich tears. One kiss, sweet, sweet. Another yet! Alexander Smith.

Give me kisses—do not stay Counting in that careful way; All the coins your lips can print Never will exhaust the mint. Kiss me, then, Every moment—and again! Give me kisses—do not stop, Measuring nectar by the drop; Though to millions they amount, They will never drain the fount. Kiss me, then, Every moment—and again! Give me kisses—all is waste Save the luxury we taste, And for kissing—kisses live Only when we take or give. Kiss me, then, Every moment—and again! Give me kisses—though their worth Far exceeds the gems of earth; Never pearls so rich and pure Cost so little, I am sure. Kiss me, then, Every moment—and again. Give me kisses—nay, ’tis true, I am just as rich as you, And for every kiss I owe, I can pay you back, you know. Kiss me, then, Every moment—and again! Saxe.

Kiss me softly, and speak to me low; Malice has ever a vigilant ear: What if Malice were lurking near? Kiss me, dear! Kiss me softly, and speak to me low. Kiss me softly, and speak to me low; Envy too has a watchful ear: What if Envy should chance to hear? Kiss me, dear! Kiss me softly, and speak to me low. Kiss me softly, and speak to me low; Trust me, darling, the time is near When lovers may love with never a fear: Kiss me, dear! Kiss me softly, and speak to me low. Saxe.

“I have brought your dinner, father,” The blacksmith’s daughter said, As she took from her arm the kettle And lifted its shining lid. “There is not any pie or pudding, So I will give you this.” And upon the toil-worn forehead She left the childish kiss. The blacksmith took off his apron, And dined in happy mood, Wondering much at the savor Hid in his humble food; While all about him were visions Full of prophetic bliss; But he never thought of the magic In his little daughter’s kiss. And she, with her kettle swinging, Merrily trudged away, Stopping at sight of a squirrel, Catching some wild bird’s lay. And I thought, how many a shadow Of life and fate we would miss, If always our frugal dinners Were seasoned with a kiss.

Our Daisy lay down In her little night-gown, And kissed me again and again, On forehead and cheek, On lips that would speak, But found themselves shut, to their gain. Then, foolish, absurd, To utter a word, I asked her the question so old, That wife and that lover Ask over and over, As if they were surer when told! There, close at her side, “Do you love me?” I cried; She lifted her golden-crowned head; A puzzled surprise Shone in her gray eyes— “Why, that’s why I kiss you!” she said. Anna C. Brackett.

Girlie on the stairway, mother up above; Girlie’s eyes and mother’s full of tender love; Girlie’s little fingers throw a hurrying kiss Right to mother, loving, fearing not to miss; Mother throws one downward to her Golden-hair; Girlie cries, “They’re meeting, mother, in the air.” By-and-by the girlie stands all, all alone, Looking sadly upward for the mother, gone Up the heavenly stairway. Girlie, standing here, Knows the mother surely surely must be near. If she throws her kisses up the golden stair, Will they meet the mother’s half-way in the air? Minnie Slade.

Banish, O maiden, thy fears of to-morrow; Dash from thy cheek, love, the tear-drop of sorrow; Pleasure flies swiftly and sweetly away: Tears for to-morrow, but kisses to-day,— Kisses, love. Hear me, then, dearest, thy doubts gently chiding: Know’st thou not true love is ever confiding? Why snatch from Cupid his bandage away? Love sees no morrow, then kiss me to-day. Kiss me, love.

All the kisses that I have given, I grudge from my soul to-day, And of all I have ever taken, I would wipe the thought away. How I wish my lips had been hermits, Held apart from kith and kin, That fresh from God’s holy service To Love’s they might enter in! Miss Bates.

You kissed me, as if roses slipped Their rose-bud necklaces, and blew Such breaths as never yet have dipped The bee in fragrance over-shoe, While rose-leaves of their color stripped Themselves to make a blush for you. Nor chide with such a cold constraint, As if you laid the rose in snow; For this the summer stores her paint, The dappled twilights overflow With motley colors, pied and quaint, For kisses that in flowers do grow. Nor pout and tease: you did not mean So sweet a thing. Abide this test: In open markets grades are seen Of good and bad, in price expressed; The buyer’s purse must choose between; But when we give, we give the best. Yet if that color, sweet as bees, Of flower-flushes teases, see How we can pluck such thorns as these, That bleed in blushes, easily; For, kiss me, sweet, just as you please, I’ll take it as it pleases me. Harney.

“What are they?” birdie, do you ask? Your forehead wears a puckered line, Oh! now you’ve found a dreadful task Even for a learnèd head like mine. Some questions are so hard! Ah, well, If even Plato’s self were here, The sage, I fancy, could not tell The riddle that you ask me, dear. My birdie, Plato was a sage, The first to find he had a soul; The life we live from youth to age, His wisdom taught, was not the whole And many theories Plato had To rule the impulse of mankind, Controlling all the base and bad Through stern dominion of the mind. And love, my birdie, Plato said, Should be communion of the soul, To glowing passion cold and dead, And intellect should rule the whole. Each soul another soul might find, And spirit-intercourse reveal A pure emotion of the mind, Like that we think the angels feel. But what Platonic kisses were I doubt if Plato ever knew,— Not like, my birdie, I infer, The long, sweet kisses I give you, And those you give me back again, Repeated oft, and never done; Not thus, I fancy, could it be Platonic brides were ever won. Philosophy, perhaps, had charms To satisfy great Athens’ sage, Indifferent to his lady’s arms,— Two heads bent o’er one musty page. But moderns, made of sterner stuff, Would clothe it with a gentler light, And, soul-communion not enough, Both sense and spirit would unite. Love’s sweetest charms they would not miss, Nor into earthly passion fall, So talk of a Platonic kiss, And thus contrive to get it all. But fondest theories, birdie sweet, Oft bring a harvest of regret. Now come and sit here at my feet. Well, have you understood me, pet? I thought not. What a pair of eyes! I’ll have to send you back to school. If Plato’s spirit could arise, We’d tell the ghost he was a fool. Now lift your sweet lips up to mine; I like the language that they speak; I know the rhetoric is not fine,— What dreadful work they’d make of Greek! Ah, how I love your little form! And now—be sure you sit quite still— Just hold my left hand, soft and warm; Don’t shake the one that drives the quill. Let Plato crown his love with bays, I’ll make you mistress of my life. I’ll love you, birdie, all my days, And crown you with the name of wife.

I pray you pardon me, Elsie, And smile that frown away That dims the light of your lovely face As thunder clouds the day. For on the spur of the instant, Before I thought, ’twas done, And those great gray eyes flashed bright and cold, Like an icicle in the sun. I was thinking of the summer When we were boys and girls, And wandering in the blossoming woods, And the gay winds romped with your curls; And you seemed to me the same little girl I kissed in the elder-path. I kissed the little girl’s lips, and, alas! I have roused a woman’s wrath. There is not much to pardon, For why were your lips so red? The blonde curls fell in a shower of gold From the proud, provoking head, And the beauty that flashed from the splendid eyes And played round the tender mouth Rushed over my soul like a warm, sweet wind That blows from the fragrant South. And where, after all, is the harm done? I believe we were made to be gay, And all of youth not given to love Is vainly squandered away, And strewn through life-long labors, Like gold in the desert sands, Are love’s swift kisses and sighs and vows, And the clasp of clinging hands. And when you are old and lonely, In memory’s magic shrine You will see on your thin and wasting hands, Like gems, those kisses of mine; And when you muse at evening, At the sound of some vanished name, The ghost of my kisses shall touch your lips And kindle your heart to flame. John Hay.

Half hidden in the holly’s shade, Dark with the weight of snow o’erlaid, I see you plainly! What plot are you two hatching now, Lurking beneath the sheltering bough? You’re hiding vainly! But never mind—with eyes downcast, I’ll let you think you have not passed Before my vision. “Let’s snowball him! ’twill be such fun!” The words are whispered low by one, In soft derision. Ho! ho! so that’s your little plot! You may be sure that I shall not Attempt to foil it! Besides, I can’t for very shame Turn tail and run; and such a game, ’Twere sin to spoil it! A warning shot,—it whizzes past! Another,—fairly hit at last! Nice warm work this is! Well, fire away! Your stock runs low; Reward must come at length, you know,— Returns of kisses! Bravo! I’ve caught you both at length! In vain resist with all your strength, And blushing faces! Love’s toll, you know, ’s a warmer thing Than making snowballs just to fling From secret places!

Upon the broad Atlantic sands I saw a maiden and her lover, Her dimpled fingers in his hands, Her shy blue eyes the sea looked over; With coy girl’s love to him she turned, And said, “Dear, Do you think that any one will know That you have dared to kiss me so?” Alone upon the pebbly strand Break ocean swell and pale moonbeam; The lovers are walking hand in hand From the bluff to where the gas-lamps stream; They reach the peopled colonnade: Trembling, she said, “Dear, I’m sure they all will know That you have dared to kiss me so.” The waltz floats through the casement low, And the lovers stand at the open door; The maid shyly whispers, “Will they know?” Her eyes seem fastened to the floor: Fond he looks down on the fair young face— “All will see That my arms are empty,” he said, “And no kisses cling to your lips so red.” They join the dancers’ merry whirl, The room is filled with beauties fair; With cheeks aflush and ruffled curl, My maiden dances with absent air; She fears that every one can tell. Yet, I trow, Only the lover and I could know Which was the girl that had been kissed so.

Three, only three, my darling, Separate, solemn, slow; Not like the swift and joyous ones We used to know, When we kissed because we loved each other, Simply to taste love’s sweet, And lavished our kisses as the summer Lavishes heat; But as they kiss whose hearts are wrung, When hope and fear are spent, And nothing is left to give, except A sacrament! First of the three, my darling, Is sacred unto pain; We have hurt each other often, We shall again,— When we pine because we miss each other, And do not understand How the written words are so much colder Than eye and hand. I kiss thee, dear, for all such pain Which we may give or take; Buried, forgiven before it comes, For our love’s sake. The second kiss, my darling, Is full of joy’s sweet thrill; We have blessed each other always, We always will. We shall reach until we feel each other, Beyond all time and space; We shall listen till we hear each other In every place; The earth is full of messengers Which love sends to and fro; I kiss thee, darling, for all joy Which we shall know! The last kiss, O my darling— My love—I cannot see, Through my tears, as I remember What it may be. We may die and never see each other, Die with no time to give Any sign that our hearts are faithful To die, as live. Token of what they will not see Who see our parting breath, This one last kiss, my darling, seals The seal of death!

My uncle Philip, hale old man, Has children by the dozen; Tom, Ned, and Jack, and Kate, and Ann— How many call me “cousin”? Good boys and girls, the best was Bess; I bore her on my shoulder, A little bit of loveliness That never should grow older! Her eyes had such a pleading way, They seemed to say, “Don’t strike me;” Then, growing bold, another day, “I mean to make you like me.” I liked my cousin, early, late; Who likes not little misses? She used to meet me at the gate, Just old enough for kisses. This was, I think, three years ago,— Before I went to college; I learned one thing there,—how to row, A healthy sort of knowledge. When I was plucked (we won the race), And all was at an end there, I thought of Uncle Philip’s place, And every country friend there. My cousin met me at the gate; She looked five, ten years older,— A tall young woman, still, sedate, With manners coyer, colder. She gave her hand with stately pride: “Why, what a greeting this is! You used to kiss me.” She replied, “I am too old for kisses.” I loved, I love my cousin Bess; She’s always in my mind now,— A full-blown bud of loveliness, The rose of womankind now: She must have suitors; old and young Must bow their heads before her; Vows must be made, and songs be sung, By many a mad adorer! But I must win her; she must give To me her youth and beauty; And I—to love her while I live Will be my happy duty; For she will love me soon or late, And be my bliss of blisses, Will come to meet me at the gate, Nor be too old for kisses!

Three suitors were with me to-day; They proffered love and treasure. The lordly one gave pleasant words, And many ells of ribbon; The second, plain of face and form, He counted coin and jewels; The third presented roses three, And coupled them with kisses. The first I fancied, and would greet Him warmly, as a brother; The second, gladly him I’d choose To be my nearest neighbor; But, oh, the third, of rosy gifts, Who stifled me with kisses,— I’d give to him these longing eyes, And all that life possesses.

When I took my leave last night, Nellie—she could do no more— Softly brought a candle-light Just to show me to the door. How it was I cannot tell, When I felt her hand in mine, Something said, “Why not as well Press her pretty lips to thine?” Then I clasped one hand quite tight,— T’other held the light, you know,— So that Nellie, helpless quite, Felt she couldn’t say me “No.” But she gave a little scream, That did ne’er the bliss deny; And—too brief the happy dream— In went she, and out went I.

A kiss! oh, ’tis a magic spell That wildly thrills the breast, And bids it with emotion swell When lip to lip is pressed; ’Tis friendship’s breath, affection’s seal, And, though a transient bliss, The proudest, coldest heart must feel The rapture of a kiss. A kiss! yes, ’tis a dear delight, Whose memory often cheers, And sheds through clouds a radiance bright, In scenes of after-years. When sorrows o’er the bosom roll, Who hath not felt a bliss Spread swiftly through the glowing soul Beneath a magic kiss?

“Papa, the bell’s a-ringin’ For church—an’ mus’ you go? And I was been a-bringin’ Your boots an’ fings for you. And that’s all I’m a-good for, Jus’ cos’ to love you some, And here’s my bestest hood, for To meet you comin’ home. “Now jus’ I want you kiss me Afore you goes away, ’Cause maybe you might miss me— Bein’ to church all day. Now I’m ‘your little mices,’ To creep up on your knee; ’F you’ll kiss me all five twices, Why—then—I’ll—let you be.”[12] So climbs “my little mices” Up on my willing knees, And takes her full “five twices” As oft as doth her please; The while that I am drinking Kiss-cups of purest bliss, And, dreamy-joyous, thinking, Was ever love like this? Yet, mid my fond caressing, I mind the time of old When little ones, for blessing, The Christ-arms did enfold. And so I tell the story Unto my little maid,— How our Good Lord of Glory, While here with us he stayed, Would take the little children Up on his friendly knee, The while his kindness filled them With fearless, gentle glee. Then, soft and sweetly laying His dear hand on their head, They knew that he was praying,— They heard the prayer he said! And so, her blue eyes deeping, Upon her head I lay My hand, while, moved to weeping, Unto the Lord I say, “O loving, gracious Father, Bless this dear babe, I pray, And with thy people gather My child, at that great day.” Bathed in a holy beauty, The little maid slips down, And I to “higher duty” The chiming summons own. But childhood’s quaint devices Once more must needs appear: “Did he kiss ’em all five twices?” Is the last word I hear! Nutting.

What is to me the sweetest thing That the morning light can bring? It is this,— My mother’s kiss. And, if gentle watch she’ll keep, What gives me the sweetest sleep? Only this,— My mother’s kiss. Nothing else so dear can be, Nothing brings such joy to me, As does this,— My mother’s kiss. Then, if I’m a pleasant child, Kind, obedient, and mild, I’ll have this,— My mother’s kiss.

Kiss me quick, my baby boy,— Mother’s darling, mother’s joy! Beat the little drum no more; Let the horse lie on the floor. Do not move a foot or hand; Kiss me, kiss me, where you stand, Through the chair while I am kneeling, And the flies look from the ceiling. That’s a noble little boy! Mother’s darling, mother’s joy! ’Twas a kiss well worth the getting; Kissing better is than fretting.

A kiss when I wake in the morning, A kiss when I go to bed, A kiss when I burn my fingers, A kiss when I bump my head. A kiss when my bath is over, A kiss when my bath begins; My mamma is full of kisses, As full as nurse is of pins. A kiss when I play with my rattle, A kiss when I pull her hair; She covered me over with kisses The day I fell from the stair. A kiss when I give her trouble, A kiss when I give her joy: There’s nothing like mamma’s kisses For her own little baby-boy.

I. You kissed me, my head dropped low on your breast, With a feeling of shelter and infinite rest, While the holy emotion my tongue dared not speak Flushed up like a flame from my heart to my cheek! Your arms held me fast! Oh, your arms were so bold! Heart responded to heart in that passionate fold! Your glances seemed drawing my soul through mine eyes, As the sun draws the mist from the sea to the skies. And your lips clung to mine till I prayed, in my bliss, They might never unclasp from that rapturous kiss! You kissed me! my heart and my breast and my will In delicious delight for the moment stood still! Life had for me then no temptations, no charms, No vista of pleasure outside of your arms! And were I this moment an angel possessed Of the glory and peace that belong to the blest, I would cast my white robes unrepiningly down, And tear from my forehead its beautiful crown, To nestle once more in that haven of rest, With your lips pressed to mine, and my head on your breast! You kissed me! my soul in a bliss so divine Reeled and swooned like a man that is drunken with wine! And I thought, ’twere delicious to die then, if death Would come while my lips were still moist with your breath! ’Twere delicious to die, if my heart might grow cold While your arms wrapped me fast in that passionate hold! And these are the questions I ask day and night: Must my life taste but once such exquisite delight? Would you care if my breast were your shelter as then? And if I were there would you kiss me again? II. You kissed me: your arms round my neck were entwined, As the vine to the oak clings when pressed by the wind; Your breath, zephyr-like from some lone balmy isle, Shed a fragrance that heightened the charm of your smile, And banished all care, as the sun at mid-day Dispels the dark clouds which obscure his bright way. And now, as fond memory, with tints bright and rare, Paints thy rich coral lips as Love hovers there, I ask but one boon may be granted to me,— That I, like the oak, may forever shield thee. III. You kissed me, and responsively my lips to yours were pressed, While trembling came a long-drawn sigh deep from that throbbing breast. Your cheeks were bathed in blushes, while those pouting lips revealed That secret I had burned to know, yet you’d so long concealed; You loved me. With what ecstasy did I your form embrace, And kiss away the starting tear which marred that beauteous face! And now when absent, darling, my thoughts revert to thee, Thine image is reflected here, true as reality, And ever thus it will remain, in colors pure and bright, As a meteor in the sky, love, amid the gloom of night.

For would she of her gentilnesse, Withouten more me ones kesse, It were to me a grete guerdon. Chaucer.

O kiss! which dost those ruddy gems impart, Or gems, or fruits, of new-found paradise, Breathing all bliss and sweetening to the heart, Teaching dumb lips a nobler exercise, O kiss! which souls, e’en souls, together ties By links of love, and only nature’s art, How fain would I paint thee to all men’s eyes, Or of thy gifts, at least, shade out some part. Sir Philip Sidney.

He her beholding, at her feet down fell, And kissed the ground on which her sole did tread, And washed the same with water, which did well From his moist eyes, and like two streams proceed. Spenser.

These poor half-kisses kill me quite: Was ever man thus served? Amid an ocean of delight, For pleasure to be starved. Drayton.

I do confess thou’rt sweet; yet find Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, Thy favors are but like the wind, That kisseth everything that meets; And since thou canst with more than one, Thou’rt worthy to be kissed by none. Sir Robert Aytoun.

I do not love thee for those soft Red coral lips I’ve kissed so oft; Nor teeth of pearl, the double guard To speech, whence music still is heard; Though from those lips a kiss being taken Might tyrants melt, and death awaken. Carew.

I die, dear life! unless to me be given As many kisses as the spring hath flowers, Or there be silver-drops in Iris’ showers, Or stars there be in all-embracing heaven; And if displeased you of the match remain, You shall have leave to take them back again. Drummond of Hawthornden.

You say I love not, ’cause I do not play Still with your ringlets, and kiss time away; By love’s religion, I must here confess it, The most I love when I the least express it! Herrick.

Love in her sunny eyes does basking play; Love walks the pleasant mazes of her hair; Love does on both her lips forever stay, And sows and reaps a thousand kisses there. Cowley.

Her kisses faster, though unknown before, Than blossoms fall on parting spring, she strewed; Than blossoms sweeter, and in number more. Davenant.

So cheered he his fair spouse, and she was cheered, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wiped them with her hair; Two other precious drops, that ready stood, Each in their crystal sluice, he, ere they fell, Kissed, as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feared to have offended. Milton.

We were alone, quite unsuspiciously, But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue All o’er discolored by that reading were; But one point only wholly us o’erthrew: When we read the long-sighed-for smile of her, To be thus kissed by such devoted lover, He who from me[13] can be divided ne’er Kissed my mouth, trembling in the act all over.[14] Dante.

Sweet pouting lip! whose color mocks the rose, Rich, ripe, and teeming with the dew of bliss,— The flower of Love’s forbidden fruit, which grows Insidiously to tempt us with a kiss. Tasso.

I felt the while a pleasing kind of smart; The kiss went tingling to my very heart. When it was gone, the sense of it did stay, The sweetness cling’d upon my lips all day, Like drops of honey loath to fall away. Dryden.

Upon my livid lips bestow a kiss; Oh, envy not the dead, they feel not bliss. Dryden.

Then with great haste I clasped my arms about her neck and waist; About her yielding waist, and took a fouth Of sweetest kisses frae her glowing mouth. While hard and fast I held her in my grips, My very saul came louping to my lips; Sair, sair she flet wi’ me ’tween ilka smack, But weel I kend she meant na as she spak. Allan Ramsay.

Oh, were I made by some transforming power The captive bird that sings within thy bower! Then might my voice thy listening ears employ, And I those kisses he receives enjoy. Pope.

On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. Pope.

Be plain in dress, and sober in your diet; In short, my deary, kiss me, and be quiet. Lady Montague: Summary of Advice.

Never man before More blest; nor like this kiss hath been another, Nor ever beauties like, met at such closes, But in the kisses of two damask roses. Brown: Pastorals.

At these sweet words, how shall I tell my joy? I called him to my side. He rose, approached, And trembling seized the hand I proffered him, A pledge of reconcilèd love; and, ah! So fervent kissed it, that my very heart Leaped in my bosom; then full many a sigh He breathed, with sweet regards and fond caress. Goldoni.

The kiss snatched hasty from the sidelong maid, On purpose guardless, or pretending sleep. Thomson: Winter.

The rose he in his bosom wore, How oft upon my breast was seen; And when I kissed the drooping flower, Behold, he cried, it blooms again! Cowper.

Soft child of love, thou balmy bliss, Inform me, O delicious kiss! Why thou so suddenly art gone, Lost in the moment thou art won? Wolcot.

I ken’t her heart was a’ my ain; I loved her most sincerely; I kissed her owre and owre again, Amang the rigs o’ barley. Burns.

Her lips, more than the cherries bright, A richer dye has graced them; They charm th’ admiring gazer’s sight, And sweetly tempt to taste them. Burns.

Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow, Sae bonnie blue her een, my dearie; Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou’; The mair I kiss she’s aye my dearie. Burns.

I’ll pu’ the budding rose when Phœbus peeps in view, For it’s like a baumy kiss o’ her sweet bonnie mou’; The hyacinth for constancy, wi’ its unchanging blue— And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May. Burns.

A man may drink and not be drunk; A man may fight and not be slain; A man may kiss a bonnie lass And aye be welcome back again. Burns.

Her head upon my throbbing breast, She, sinking, said, “I’m thine forever!” While many a kiss the seal imprest The sacred vow we ne’er should sever. Burns.

Gin a body meet a body Coming through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry? Gin a body meet a body Coming through the glen, Gin a body kiss a body, Need the world ken? Burns.

How delicious is the winning Of a kiss at Love’s beginning, When two mutual hearts are sighing For the knot there’s no untying! Campbell.

That’s hallowed ground—where, mourned and missed, The lips repose our love has kissed. ... A kiss can consecrate the ground Where mated hearts are mutual bound. Campbell.

The kiss that would make a maid’s cheek flush Wroth, as if kissing were a sin, Amid the Argus eyes and din And tell-tale glare of noon, Brings but a murmur and a blush, Beneath the modest moon. Campbell.

A creature not too bright or good For human nature’s daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. Wordsworth.

Ah, happy she! to ’scape from him whose kiss Had been pollution unto aught so chaste; Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste, Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste. Byron.

How shall I bear the moment, when restored To that young heart where I alone am lord, When from those lips, unbreathed upon for years, I shall again kiss off the soul-felt tears, And find those tears warm as when last they started, Those sacred kisses pure as when we parted! Moore: Lalla Rookh.

One dear glance, Like those of old, were heaven! whatever chance Hath brought thee here, oh, ’twas a blessed one! There—my loved lips—they move—that kiss hath run Like the first shoot of life through every vein, And now I clasp her, mine, all mine again. Moore: Lalla Rookh.

Though high that tower, that rock-way rude, There’s one who, but to kiss thy cheek, Would climb the untrodden solitude Of Ararat’s tremendous peak, And think its steeps, though dark and dread, Heaven’s pathways, if to thee they led! Moore: Lalla Rookh.

Oh, think what the kiss and the smile must be worth, When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss, And own, if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this. Moore: Lalla Rookh.

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. Scott: Marmion.

Oh, lift me from the grass! I die, I faint, I fail! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. Shelley.

Then press, with warm caresses, Close lips, and bridal kisses, Your steel;—cursed be his head, Who fails the bride he wed. Koerner: Sword Song.

Around the glowing hearth at night The harmless laugh and winter tale Go round, while parting friends delight To toast each other o’er their ale; The cotter oft with quiet zeal Will musing o’er his Bible lean; While in the dark the lovers steal To kiss and toy behind the screen. Clare: December.

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck, So soft and so white, without freckle or speck, And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light, And he kissed her sweet lips—don’t you think he was right? “Now, Rory, leave off, sir, you’ll hug me no more; That’s eight times to-day that you’ve kissed me before.” “Then here goes another,” says he, “to make sure, For there’s luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O’Moore. Lover.

Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet; Love with sad kisses unfelt hath prest Thy meek-dropt eyelids and quiet breast; And the glad Spring, calling out bird and bee, Shall color all blossoms, fair child, but thee. Mrs. Hemans.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow, With her pale hands and soft, Whose touch upon the lute-chords low Had stilled his heart so oft. She spread her mantle o’er his breast, She bathed his lips with dew, And on his cheeks such kisses pressed As hope and joy ne’er knew. Mrs. Hemans.

Jenny kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in; Time, you thief! who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in. Say I’m weary, say I’m sad, Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I’m growing old, but add— Jenny kissed me! Leigh Hunt.

I classed and counted once Earth’s lamentable sounds,—the well-a-day, The jarring yea and nay, The fall of kisses upon senseless clay. Mrs. Browning.

There were words That broke in utterance—melted in the fire; Embrace, that was convulsion; then a kiss, As long and silent as the ecstatic night, And deep, deep shuddering breaths, which meant beyond Whatever could be told by word or kiss. Mrs. Browning.

First time he kissed me, but he only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And, ever since, it grew more clear and white, Slow to world greeting; quick with its “Oh, list!” When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst, I could not wear it plainer to my sight Than that first kiss. The second passed in height The first, and sought the forehead; and half missed. Falling upon my hair. Oh, beyond meed! That was the chrism of love, which love’s own crown, With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. The third upon my lips was folded down In perfect purple state! Since when, indeed, I have been proud, and said, “My love, my own!” Mrs. Browning.

He will kiss me on the mouth Then; and lead me as a lover Through the crowds that praise his deeds. Mrs. Browning.

Love feareth death! I was no child—I was betrothed that day; I wore a troth-kiss on my lips I could not give away. Mrs. Browning.

Kiss, baby, kiss! mothers’ lips shine by kisses; Choke the warm breath that else would fall in blessings; Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses Tend thee the kiss that poisons ’mid caressings. Charles Lamb.

Both our mouths went wandering in one way, And, aching sorely, met among the leaves; Our hands, being left behind, strained far away. Wm. Morris: Defence of Guinevere.

I saw you kissing once: like a curved sword, That bites with all its edge, did your lips lie. Wm. Morris: Defence of Guinevere.

And with a velvet lip print on his brow Such language as the tongue hath never spoken. Mrs. Sigourney.

There was a beam in that young mother’s eye, ’ Lit by the feelings that she could not speak, As from her lips a plaintive lullaby Stirred the bright tresses on her infant’s cheek; While now and then, with melting heart, she prest Soft kisses o’er its red and smiling lips,— Lips sweet as rosebuds in fresh beauty dressed Ere the young murmuring bee their honey sips. Mrs. Welby.

Oh, turn from me those radiant eyes, With love’s dark lightning beaming, Or veil the power that in them lies To set the young heart dreaming. ... What pity that thy lips of rose, So fitted for heart-healing, Should not with tenderest kisses close The wounds thine eyes are dealing! Motherwell.

She tenderly kissed me, She fondly caressed, And then I fell gently To sleep on her breast— Deeply to sleep From the heaven of her breast. E. A. Poe.

Oh, stay, Madonna! stay; ’Tis not the dawn of day That marks the skies with yonder opal streak; The stars in silence shine; Then press thy lips to mine, And rest upon my neck thy fervid cheek. Macaulay.

A moment, and he saw her come,— That maiden, from her latticed home, With eyes all love, and lips apart, And faltering step, and beating heart, She came, and joined her cheek to his In one prolonged and rapturous kiss; And while it thrilled through heart and limb, The world was naught to her or him. Praed.

Oh! Vidal’s very soul did weep Whene’er that music, like a charm, Brought back from their unlistening sleep The kissing lip and clasping arm. Praed.

How shall I woo her? I will bow Before the holy shrine, And pray the prayer, and vow the vow, And press her lips to mine; And I will tell her, when she parts From passion’s thrilling kiss, That memory to many hearts Is dearer far than bliss. Praed.

She loved the ripples’ play, As to her feet the truant rovers Wandered and went with a laugh away, Kissing but once, like wayward lovers. Praed.

Deep is the bliss of the belted knight, When he kisses at dawn the silken glove, And goes, in his glittering armor dight, To shiver a lance for his Lady-Love! Praed.

Dream, while the chill sea-foam In mockery dashes o’er thee, Of the cheerful hearth, and the quiet home, And the kiss of her that bore thee. Praed.

I wept and blessed thee, called thee o’er and o’er By that dear name which I must use no more; And kissed with passionate lips the empty air, As if thy image stood before me there. Anon.: Josephine to Napoleon.

My heart can kiss no heart but thine, And if these lips but rarely pine In the pale abstinence of sorrow, It is that nightly I divine, As I this world-sick soul recline, I shall be with thee ere the morrow. Bailey: Festus.

The smile, the sigh, the tear, and the embrace— All the delights of love at last in one, With kisses close as stars in the Milky Way. Bailey: Festus.

Frown—toss about—let her lips be for a time: But steal a kiss at last like fire from heaven. Bailey: Festus.

Oh, weep not—wither not the soul Made saturate with bliss; I would not have one briny tear Embitter Beauty’s kiss. Bailey: Festus.

Mother’s kiss Was ne’er more welcome to the waking child, After a dream of horrors, than the breeze Upon my feverish brow. Anon.: Saul.

Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life! the days that are no more. Tennyson: Princess.

The trance gave way To those caresses, when a hundred times In that last kiss, which never was the last, Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died. Tennyson: Love and Duty.

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips. Tennyson: Locksley Hall.

When I was wont to meet her In the silent woody places By the home that gave me birth, We stood tranced in long embraces Mixed with kisses sweeter, sweeter Than anything on earth. Tennyson: Maud.

They found the stately horse, Who now, no more a vassal to the thief, But free to stretch his limbs in lawful flight, Neighed with all gladness as they came, and stooped With a low whinny toward the pair; and she Kissed the white star upon his noble front, Glad also: then Geraint upon the horse Mounted, and reached a hand, and on his foot She set her own and climbed; he turned his face And kissed her climbing, and she cast her arms About him, and at once they rode away. Tennyson: Enid.

Ah, one rose, One rose, but one, by those fair fingers culled, Were worth a hundred kisses pressed on lips Less exquisite than thine. Tennyson: Gardener’s Daughter.

Then stood the maiden hushed in sweet surprise, And with her clasped hands held her heart-throbs down Beneath the wondrous brightness of his eyes, Whose smile seemed to enwreathe her like a crown. He raised no wand, he gave no strange commands, But touched her eyes with tender touch and light, With charmed lips kissed apart her folded hands, And laid therein the lily, snowy white. Wilson: Magic Pitcher.

Ah, sad are they who know not love, But, far from passion’s tears and smiles, Drift down a moonless sea, beyond The silvery coasts of fairy isles. And sadder they whose longing lips Kiss empty air, and never touch The dear warm mouth of those they love— Waiting, wasting, suffering much. Aldrich: Persian Love-Song.

Yes, child, I know I am out of tune; The light is bad; the sky is gray; I’ll work no more this afternoon, So lay your royal robes away. Besides, you’re dreamy—hand on chin— I know not what—not in the vein: While I would paint Anne Boleyn, You sit there looking like Elaine. Not like the youthful, radiant queen, Unconscious of the coming woe, But rather as she might have been, Preparing for the headsman’s blow. I see! I’ve put you in a miff— Sitting bolt upright, wrist on wrist. How should you look? Why, dear, as if— Somehow—as if you’d just been kissed! Aldrich: In an Atelier.

We had talked long; and then a silence came; And in the topmost firs To his nest the white dove floated like a flame; And my lips closed on hers Who was the only She, And in one girl all womanhood to me. Palgrave.

Fly, white-winged sea-bird, following fast, That dips around our foamy wake, Go nestle in her virgin breast, And kiss her pure lips for my sake. Sailor’s Valentine.

He who wandered with the peasant Jew, And broke with publicans the bread of shame, And drank with blessings in His Father’s name The water which Samaria’s outcast drew, Hath now His temples upon every shore, Altar and shrine and priest,—and incense dim Evermore rising, with low prayer and hymn, From lips which press the temple’s marble floor, Or kiss the gilded sign of the dread Cross He bore! Whittier.

Lament who will the ribald line Which tells his lapse[15] from duty, How kissed the maddening lips of wine Or wanton ones of beauty; But think, while falls that shade between The erring one and Heaven, That he who loved like Magdalen Like her may be forgiven. Whittier.

Oh to have dwelt in Bethlehem When the star of the Lord shone bright! To have sheltered the holy wanderers On that blessed Christmas night! To have kissed the tender wayworn feet Of the Mother undefiled, And, with reverent wonder and deep delight, To have tended the Holy Child! Adelaide Procter.

“What more have I to give you? Why give you anything? You had my rose before, sir, And now you have my ring.” “You have forgotten one thing.” “I do not understand.” “The dew goes with the rose-bud, And with the ring the hand!” She gave her hand; he took it, And kissed it o’er and o’er: “I give myself to you, love; I cannot give you more!” Stoddard: The Lady’s Gift.

And Halfred the Scald said, “This In the name of the Lord I kiss, Who on it was crucified!” And a shout went round the board, “In the name of Christ the Lord, Who died!” Longfellow.

They climb up into my turret O’er the arms and back of my chair: If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses; Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine. Longfellow: The Children’s Hour.

Men and devils both contrive Traps for catching girls alive; Eve was duped, and Helen kissed,— How, oh, how can you resist? Holmes.

Kiss but the crystal’s mystic rim, Each shadow rends its flowery chain, Springs in a bubble from its brim, And walks the chambers of the brain. Holmes.

Now, why thy long delaying? Alack! thy beads and praying! If thou, a saint, dost hope To kneel and kiss the Pope, Then I, a sinner, know Where sweeter kisses grow— Nay, now, just one before we go! Tilton: Flight from the Convent.

“If a laddie meet a lassie Comin’ thro’ the rye,”

“A’ the lads they smile on me When comin’ thro’ the rye,”

“Jenny is a’ wat, puir bodie; Jenny’s seldom dry; She drag’lt a’ her petticoatie, Comin’ thro’ the rye.”]

And quickly hied he down the stair; Of fifteen steps he made but three; He’s ta’en his bonny love in arms, And kist, and kist her tenderlie.

He took his bonny boy in his arms, And kist him tenderlie; Says, “Though I would your father hang, Your mother’s dear to me.” He kist him o’er and o’er again: “My grandson I thee claim; And Robin Hood in gude greenwood, And that shall be your name.”

With that she bent her snow-white knee, Down by the shepheard kneeled she, And him she sweetely kist: With that the shepheard whooped for joy, Quoth he, “Ther’s never shepheard’s boy That ever was so blist.”

Aft on the banks we’d sit us thair, And sweetly kiss and toy, Wi’ garlands gay wad deck my hair My handsome Gilderoy.

He took her in his armes, as yet So coyish to be kist, As mayds that know themselves beloved, And yieldingly resist.

But first upon my true love’s grave My weary limbs I’ll lay, And thrice I’ll kiss the green-grass turf That wraps his breathless clay.

When thus I saw he loved me well, I grewe so proud his paine to see, That I, who did not know myselfe, Thought scorne of such a youth as hee, And grewe soe coy and nice to please, As women’s lookes are often soe, He might not kisse, nor hand forsooth, Unlesse I willed him soe to doe.

And falling down all in a swoone Before King Henry’s face, Full oft he in his princelye armes Her bodye did embrace: And twentye times, with watery eyes, He kist her tender cheeke, Untill he had revivde againe Her senses milde and meeke.

I’ll court you, and think you fair, Since love does distract my brain: I’ll go, I’ll wed the night-mare, And kiss her, and kiss her again.

Shee saies, I had rather have one kisse, Child Waters, of thy mouth, Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both, That lye by north and south.

Love, that had bene long deluded, Was with kisses sweete concluded; And Phillida with garlands gaye Was made the lady of the Maye.

I’ll do more for thee, Margaret, Than any of thy kin; For I will kiss thy pale wan lips, Though a smile I cannot win. With that bespake the seven brethren, Making most piteous moan: “You may go kiss your jolly brown bride, And let our sister alone.” “If I do kiss my jolly brown bride, I do but what is right; I ne’er made a vow to yonder poor corpse, By day, nor yet by night.”

“Thy faith and troth thou’se nevir get, Of me shalt nevir win, Till that thou come within my bower And kiss my cheek and chin.” “If I should come within thy bower, I am no earthly man: And should I kiss thy rosy lipp, Thy days will not be lang.”

“And there,” quoth hee, “Ile meete my deare, If God soe lend me life, On this day month without all fayle I will make thee my wife.” Then with a sweete and loving kisse, They parted presentlye, And att their partinge brinish teares Stoode in eche other’s eye.

But had I wist, before I kisst, That love had been sae ill to win, I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd, And pinned it wi’ a siller pin.

In love as we have livde, In love let us depart; And I, in token of my love, Do kiss thee with my heart.

With lippes as cold as any stone, They kist their children small: “God bless you both, my children deare;” With that the teares did fall.

Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows, Vows due to me alone: Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss, Nor think him all thy own.

Sir Kay beheld that lady’s face, And looked upon her sweere:[16] “Whoever kisses that ladye,” he sayes, “Of his kisse he stands in feare.” Sir Kay beheld that ladye againe, And looked upon her snout: “Whoever kisses that ladye,” he sayes, “Of his kisse he stands in doubt.”

The good old man, even overjoyed with this, Fell on the ground, and wold have kissed Guy’s feete: “Father,” quoth he, “refraine soe base a kisse, For age to honor youth I hold unmeete.”

Nay, fond one, shun that mistletoe, Nor lure me ’neath its fatal bough: Some other night ’twere joy to go, But ah! I must not, dare not, now! ’Tis sad, I own, to see thy face Thus tempt me with its giggling glee, And feel I cannot now embrace The opportunity—and thee. ’Tis sad to think that jealousy’s Sharp scissors may our true love sever, And that my coldness now may freeze Thy warm affection, love, forever. But ah! to disappoint our bliss, A fatal hindrance now is stuck: ’Tis not that I am loath to kiss, But, dearest,—I have dined on duck.

Out from the dark, wild forest Rode the terrible Heinz Von Stein, And paused at the front of a tavern, And gazed at the swinging sign. Then he sat himself down in a corner, And growled for a bottle of wine; Up came—with a flask and a corkscrew— A maiden of beauty divine. Then he sighed, with a deep love sighing, And said, “O damsel mine, Suppose you just give a few kisses To the valorous Ritter Von Stein?” But she answered, “The kissing business Is not at all in my line; And surely I shall not begin it On a countenance ugly as thine.” Then the knight was exceedingly angry, And he cursed both coarse and fine; And he asked her what was the swindle For her sour and nasty wine. And fiercely he rode to his castle, And sat himself down to dine: And this is the fearful legend Of the terrible Heinz Von Stein.

“Let’s kiss,” says Jane; “Content,” says Nan, And so says every she; “How many?” says Batt; “Why, three,” says Matt, “For that’s a maiden’s fee.” But they, instead of three, Did give them half a score, And they in kindness gave ’em, gave ’em, Gave ’em as many more.

“Go from my window, go, Or something at you I may throw:”

“Throw me or blow me a kiss, And nothing can then come amiss.”

The souter gae his sow a kiss. “Grumph” (quo’ the sow) “it’s for my birse;” “And wha gae ye sae sweet a mou’?” Quo’ the souter to the sow. “Grumph” (quo’ the sow) “and wha gae ye A tongue sae sleekit and sae slee?”

“Auld wifie, auld wifie, will ye go a-shearing?” “Speak a little louder, sir, I’m unco dull o’ hearing.” “Auld wifie, auld wifie, will ye let me kiss ye?” “I hear a little better, sir, may a’ the warld bless ye.”

“Old woman, old woman, may I come and kiss you?” “Yes, and thank you kindly, sir, and may Heaven bless you.”

Some say that kissing’s a sin, But I think it’s nane ava; For kissing has wonn’d in this warld Since ever there was twa. Oh, if it wasna lawfu’, Lawyers wadna allow it; If it wasna holy, Ministers wadna do it. If it wasna modest, Maidens wadna tak it; If it wasna plenty, Puir folks wadna get it.

King Keder saw a pretty girl, King Keder would have kissed her, The damsel nimbly slipped aside, and so King Keder missed her, Keder missed her.

Upon this promise did he raise his chin, Like a dive dapper peering through a wave, Who, being looked on, ducks as quickly in; So offers he to give what she did crave; But when her lips were ready for his pay, He winks, and turns his lips another way.

When Carlo sits in Sally’s chair, Oh, don’t I wish that I were there! When her fairy fingers pat his head, Oh, don’t I wish ’twas me instead! When Sally’s arms his neck imprison, Oh, don’t I wish my neck was his’n! When Sally kisses Carlo’s nose, Oh, don’t I wish that I were those!

Judy’s a darling; my kisses she suffers: She’s an heiress, that’s clear, For her father sells beer; He keeps the sign of the Cow and the Snuffers.

Oh for the lessons learned by heart! Ay, though the very birch’s smart Should mark those hours again; I’d “kiss the rod,” and be resigned Beneath the strokes, and even find Some sugar in the cane!

Here, when she took the macaroons from me, She wiped her mouth to clean the crumbs so sweet! Dear napkin! yes, she wiped her lips in thee,— Lips sweeter than the macaroons she eat. And when she took that pinch of Maccabaw That made my love so delicately sneeze, Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw; And thou art doubly dear for things like these. No washerwoman’s filthy hand shall e’er, Sweet pocket-handkerchief! thy worth profane; For thou hast touched the rubies of my fair, And I will kiss thee o’er and o’er again.

Dumbarton’s drums beat bonnie, O, When they mind me o’ my dear Johnny, O; How happy am I, When my soldier is by, When he kisses and blesses his Annie, O! ’Tis a soldier alone can delight me, O,[17] For his graceful looks do invite me, O; Whilst guarded in his arms, I’ll fear no war’s alarms, Neither danger nor death shall e’er fright me, O.

When lads and lasses merry be, With possets and with junkets fine, Unseen of all the company I eat their cakes and sip their wine, And, to make sport, I whoop and snort, And out the candles I do blow: The maids I kiss: They shriek, “Who’s this?” I answer nought but ho, ho, ho![18]

How very odd that poets should suppose There is no poetry about a nose, When plain as is man’s nose upon his face, A nose-less face would lack poetic grace! Noses have sympathy, a lover knows: Noses are always touched, when lips are kissing; And who would care to kiss, if nose were missing?

A lover sat down with his love by his side, With a countenance joyous, and beaming with pride. As he gazed on the blending of beauty and art, A thrill of delight filled his innermost heart; And, revelling there in his visions of bliss, He thought to obtain from the fair one a kiss. But ere he had gained the much-coveted prize, The scales of love’s blindness dropped off of his eyes; For he marked the fixed hue of the maidenly blush, And detected the carmine that passed for a flush Of the life-giving tide, with its ebb and its flow, Like a lake in the sunset with reddening glow. “Faugh!” thought he,—“is’t only a semblance, fair saint, Of beauty and youth,—only powder and paint? Have I been deceived by the likeness of truth, By counterfeit bloom and by parodied youth? Ah, that beautiful brow I was wont to declare Did vie with the lily, so white and so fair, I find to my sorrow, and e’en to love’s blight, Owes its blanch to enamel or pure lily-white! No, no, I decline! I relinquish the bliss I had hoped to derive from a rapturous kiss, Lest the mark of the brush I might haply erase, And leave a significant print on her face; Nor more will I fondly encircle her neck, Lest the counterfeit fairness my sleeve may bedeck, And I care not to bear on demonstrative arms Such manifest mark of decadence of charms.” W. M. Pegram.

In the twilight gloom The family sat in the sitting-room, Chatting the hour away Before tea, While Kate and I were watching the gray Of evening descend o’er the sea, As in a bow-window stood we. We talked of times That touched our hearts as the evening’s chimes; Holding her hand in mine,— Happy me! And as we looked at the stars that shine, I kissed her, and she kissed me, As in a bow-window stood we. Then oped the door, And the light of a lamp fell on the floor; While a maid did call Them to tea. And, as they turned, this sight saw all,— Shadows were kissing on the wall, As in a bow-window kissed we.

A district school, not far away, ’Mid Berkshire hills and winter’s day, Was humming with its wonted noise Of threescore mingled girls and boys, Some few upon their tasks intent, But more on furtive mischief bent. The while the master’s downward look Was fastened on a copy-book, Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack, As ’twere a battery of bliss Let off in one tremendous kiss! “What’s that?” the startled master cries. “That, thir,” a little imp replies, “Wath William Willuth, if you pleathe,— I thaw him kith Thuthannah Peathe!” With frown to make a statue thrill, The master thundered, “Hither, Will!” Like wretch o’ertaken in his track, With stolen chattels on his back, Will hung his head in fear and shame, And to the awful presence came,— A great, green, bashful simpleton, The butt of all good-natured fun. With smile suppressed, and birch upraised, The threatener faltered, “I’m amazed That you, my biggest pupil, should Be guilty of an act so rude! Before the whole set school, to boot. What evil genius put you to’t?” “’Twas she herself, sir,” sobbed the lad; “I didn’t mean to be so bad; But when Susannah shook her curls, And whispered I was ’fraid of girls, And dursn’t kiss a baby’s doll, I couldn’t stand it, sir, at all, But up and kissed her on the spot. I know—boo-hoo—I ought to not, But somehow, from her looks—boo-hoo— I thought she kind o’ wished me to!”

Then up arose the oysterman, and to himself said he, I guess I’ll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should see; I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear, Leander swam the Hellespont,—and I will swim this here. And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream, And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam; Oh, there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain, But they have heard her father’s step, and in he leaps again. (The lover is seized with the cramp and is drowned, and the maiden never awakens from her “swound.”) Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe, And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below. Holmes.

Since for kissing thee, Minquillo, My mother scolds me all the day, Let me have it quickly, darling, Give me back my kiss, I pray. If we have done aught amiss, Let’s undo it while we may; Quickly give me back my kiss, That she may have naught to say. Do,—she makes so great a bother, Chides so sharply, looks so grave,— Do, my love, to please my mother, Give me back the kiss I gave. Out upon you, false Minquillo! One you give, but two you take; Give me back the one, my darling, Give it for my mother’s sake.

It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well, And what the maiden thought of, I cannot, cannot tell, When by there rode a valiant knight for the town of Oviedo, Alfonzo Guzman was the knight, the Count of Desparedo. “O maiden, Moorish maiden, why sitt’st thou by the spring? Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing? Why gazest thou upon me with eyes so large and wide, And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?” “I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay, Because an article like that hath never come my way; And why I gaze upon you I cannot, cannot tell, Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon well. “My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is: A shepherd came behind me and tried to steal a kiss; I would not stand his nonsense, so ne’er a word I spoke, But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke. “My uncle the Alcayde, he waits for me at home, And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come. I cannot bring him water, the pitcher is in pieces, And so I’m sure to catch it, ’cos he wollops all his nieces.” “O maiden, Moorish maiden, wilt thou be ruled by me? So wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three, And I’ll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady, To carry home the water to thy uncle the Alcayde.” He lighted down from off his steed—he tied him to a tree— He bowed him to the maiden, and took his kisses three: “To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!” He knelt him at the fountain, and dipped his helmet in. Up rose the Moorish maiden,—behind the knight she steals, And caught Alfonzo Guzman up tightly by the heels, She tipped him in, and held him down, beneath the bubbling water, “Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet’s daughter!” A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo, She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Desparedo. I pray you all, in charity, that you will never tell How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well.

Lycinna scorns my Kisses; they are chaste, Not stout enough for her experienced taste; And Ælia calls me “bard with languid strings,” She that to Love in streets her offerings brings. Perhaps my utmost strength they seek to know, To prove my vigor!—Go! vile wantons, go! My strength, my vigor, long despair to find; For you these kisses never were designed; Never for you were these soft measures wrought: Read me, ye tender brides of boys untaught; Read me, of brides untaught ye tender boys, Yet new to Venus’ sweetly varying joys!

When young Ascanius, by the Queen of Love, Was wafted to Cythera’s lofty grove, The slumbering boy upon a couch she laid, A fragrant couch, of new-blown violets made, The blissful bower with shadowing roses crowned, And balmy-breathing airs diffused around. Soon, as she watched, through all her glowing soul Impassioned thoughts of lost Adonis stole. How oft, as memory hallowed all his charms, She longed to clasp the sleeper in her arms! How oft she said, admiring every grace, “Such was Adonis! such his lovely face!” But, fearing lest this fond excess of joy Might break the slumber of the beauteous boy, On every rose-bud that around him blowed, A thousand nectared kisses she bestowed; And straight each opening bud, which late was white, Blushed a warm crimson to the astonished sight. Still in Dione’s breast soft wishes rise, Soft wishes, vented with soft-whispered sighs. Thus, by her lips unnumbered roses pressed, Kisses, unfolding in sweet bloom, confessed; And, flushed with rapture at each new-born kiss, She felt her swelling soul o’erwhelmed in bliss. Now round this orb, soft-floating on the air, The beauteous goddess speeds her radiant car; As in gay pomp the harnessed cygnets fly, Their snow-white pinions glitter through the sky: And like Triptolemus, whose bounteous hand Strewed golden plenty o’er the fertile land, Fair Cytherea, as she flew along, O’er the vast lap of nature kisses flung; Pleased from on high she viewed the enchanted ground, And from her lips thrice fell a magic sound: He gave to mortals corn on every plain, But she those sweets which mitigate my pain. Hail, then, ye kisses! that can best assuage The pangs of love, and soften all its rage! Ye balmy kisses! that from roses sprung; Roses! on which the lips of Venus hung: Your bard am I; while yet the Aonian shades Boast their proud verdures and their flowery glades, While yet a laurel guards the sacred spring, My fond, impassioned muse of you shall sing; And Love, enraptured with the Latin name, With that dear race from which your lineage came, In Latin strains shall celebrate your praise, And tell your high descent to future days.

As round some neighboring elm the vine Its amorous tendrils loves to twine; As round the oak, in many a maze, The ivy flings its gadding sprays; Couldst thou, Neæra, thus enlace My neck with clinging close embrace; If thine with such tenacious hold My arms, Neæra, could enfold, And nought could those sweet bonds dissever, But we cling on and kiss forever; Then, Ceres, Bacchus, sleep, adieu! Good friends, I’d ask no more of you. Oh, not for these, my love, oh, no, Would I thy vermil lips forego; But, lost in kisses never ending, Our lives in mutual bliss expending, One bark should waft our spirits o’er, United, to the Stygian shore: Then, passing through a transient night, We’d enter soon those fields of light, Where, breathing richest odors round, A spring eternal paints the ground; Where heroes, once in valor proved, And beauteous heroines, once beloved, Again with mutual passion burn, Feel all their wonted flames return, And now in sportive measures tread The flowery carpet of the mead, Now sing the jocund, tuneful tale, Alternate in the myrtle vale, Where ceaseless zephyrs fan the glade, Soft-murmuring through the laurel shade; Beneath whose waving foliage grow The violet sweet of purple glow, The daffodil that breathes perfume, And roses of immortal bloom: Where Earth her gifts spontaneous yields, Nor ploughshare cuts the unfurrowed fields. Soon as we entered these abodes Of happy souls, of demi-gods, The blest would all respectful rise, And view us with admiring eyes; Would seat us ’mid the immortal throng, Where I, renowned for tender song, A poet’s and a lover’s praise, At once should claim and gain the bays; While thou, enthroned above the rest, Shouldst shine in Beauty’s train confest: Nor should the mistresses of Jove Such partial honors disapprove; E’en Helen, though of race divine, Would to thy charms her rank resign.

“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.

’Tis not a kiss you give, my love! ’Tis richest nectar from above! A fragrant shower of balmy dews, Which thy sweet lips alone diffuse! ’Tis every aromatic breeze, That wafts from Afric’s spicy trees; ’Tis honey from the osier hive, Which chymist bees with care derive From all the newly-opened flowers That bloom in Cecrops’ roseate bowers, Or from the breathing sweets that grow On famed Hymettus’ thymy brow: But if such kisses you bestow, If from your lips such raptures flow, Thus blest, supremely blest by thee, Ere long I must immortal be; Must taste on earth those joys that wait The banquets of celestial state. Then cease thy bounty, dearest fair! Such precious gifts then spare! oh, spare! Or, if I must immortal prove, Be thou immortal too, my love! For, should the heavenly powers request My presence at the ambrosial feast, Nay, should they Jove himself dethrone, And yield to me his radiant crown, I’d scorn it all, nor would I deign O’er golden realms of bliss to reign, Jove’s radiant crown I’d scorn to wear, Unless thou might’st such honors share; Unless thou too, with equal sway, Might’st rule with me the realms of day.

While tenderly around me cast Your arms, Neæra, hold me fast, And hanging o’er, to view confest Your neck and gently-heaving breast, Down on my shoulders soft decline Your beauties more than half divine, With wandering looks that o’er me rove, And fire the melting soul with love: While you, Neæra, fondly join Your little pouting lips with mine, And frolic bite your amorous swain, Complaining soft if bit again, And sweetly murmuring pour along The trembling accents of your tongue, Your tongue, now here, now there that strays, Now here, now there delighted plays, That now my humid kisses sips, Now wanton darts between my lips; And on my bosom raptured lie, Venting the gently-whispered sigh, A sigh that kindles warm desires, And kindly fans life’s drooping fires; Soft as the zephyr’s breezy wing, And balmy as the breath of spring: While you, sweet nymph! with amorous play, In kisses suck my breath away; My breath with wasting warmth replete, Parched by my breast’s contagious heat; Till, breathing soft, you pour again Returning life through every vein; Thus soothe to rest my passion’s rage, Love’s burning fever thus assuage: Sweet nymph! whose breath can best allay Those fires that on my bosom prey, Breath welcome as the cooling gale That blows when scorching heats prevail: Then, more than blest, I fondly swear, “No power can with Love’s power compare! None in the starry court of Jove Is greater than the god of Love! If any can yet greater be, Yes, my Neæra! yes, ’tis thee!”