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Of those enchanted words, or as I thought,
By virtue of those lips of dew,
That heal whate'er they turn them to.
I, who till then had never had a wish
Beyond the sunny sweetness of her eyes,
Or her dear dulcet words, more dulcet far
Than the soft murmur of a humming stream
Crooking its way among the pebble-stones,
Or summer airs that babble in the leaves,
Felt a new wish move in me to apply
This mouth of mine to hers; and so becoming
Crafty and plotting, (an unusual art
With me, but it was love's intelligence)
I did bethink me of a gentle stratagem
To work out my new wit. I made pretence,
As if the bee had bitten my under lip;
And fell to lamentations of such sort,
That the sweet medicine which I dared not ask
By virtue of those lips of dew,
That heal whate'er they turn them to.
I, who till then had never had a wish
Beyond the sunny sweetness of her eyes,
Or her dear dulcet words, more dulcet far
Than the soft murmur of a humming stream
Crooking its way among the pebble-stones,
Or summer airs that babble in the leaves,
Felt a new wish move in me to apply
This mouth of mine to hers; and so becoming
Crafty and plotting, (an unusual art
With me, but it was love's intelligence)
I did bethink me of a gentle stratagem
To work out my new wit. I made pretence,
As if the bee had bitten my under lip;
And fell to lamentations of such sort,
That the sweet medicine which I dared not ask
