I grow so weary, someway, of all
That love and loving have vouchsafed to me,
Since now all dreamed-of sweets of
Am I possessed of:
The caress that clings—The lips that mix with mine with
No language may interpret, and the free,
Unfettered brood of kisses,
Feasting in swarms on honeyed
Of passion's fullest flower—For yet I
The essence that alone makes love divine—The subtle flavoring no tang of this Weak wine of melody may here define:—A something found and lost in the first kissA lover ever poured through lips of mine.
