 | Poems and Sonnets |  |
47
DON'T.
Don't—ah, but, sweet, I will—you must not mind it,My turn at last it is to have my will,
If I should kiss my treasure till I blind it
Closed eyes of hers I'd go on kissing still;
A poor wild singer am I, and a singer
In love is not, you know, like other men,
They kiss their mistress' hand, I kiss each finger,
Then think I've miss'd one out and count again;
Let these make odes, as is their bounden duty,
To love, and seal their songs with finger tips,
But as for me when I am praising Beauty
My signature is always with the lips
Just so, sweet—let me kiss the place again,
Believe me it will heal the sooner then.
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