Benedictine

The Benedictine scents and stains
the languor of your pallid lips;
My kiss shall be a bee that sips
A fainting roseleaf flushed with rains.

I thirst, and yet my thirst increases
With draining deep and deeper kisses;
The odour of your breath releases
Desires that dream of deeper blisses.

And on my lips your lips now pressed
Cling moist and close; your lips begin
Devouringly to gather in
Your kisses that my lips possessed.

The odour of your breath releases
Wafts of intoxicating blisses;
Yet still my thirst of you increases,
I think beneath your thirsty kisses.

No kisses more, this perilous day,
Or tempting, tempt me not in vain:
This day I dare not taste again
Your lips that suck my soul away!