 | Flotsam and Jetsam |  |
23
A KISS.
(SAPPHO TO PHAON.)
I
Sweet mouth! O let me takeOne 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, 'tis a dear deceit,A drunkard's cup that mouth of thine;
Sure poison-flowers are breathing, sweet,
That fragrance fine!
24
IV
I drank—the drink betrayed meInto a madder, fiercer fever;
The scent of those love-blossoms made me
More faint than ever!
V
Yet though quick death it wereThat rich heart-vintage I must drain,
And quaff that hidden garden's air,
Again—again!
| Flotsam and Jetsam | |