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Are not the poppy-fields one snowy flame?
Come, let us wander hand in hand therein,
Staining with joyout juice our lips of shame,
Draining their bitter draught of sterile sin!
Are not the eyes of sleep already dull,
The lashes drooping over their desire?
Are not the gods awaiting to annul
With Lethe the last flicker of the fire?
Ay, let us kiss, my darling; let us twitch
For the last time the flesh against the flesh,
Before the coming of the lovely witch
That shall excite our sleepy souls afresh,
Anointing us with subtle drugs and suave,
Fit for the grave, for love beyond the grave!
Come, let us wander hand in hand therein,
Staining with joyout juice our lips of shame,
Draining their bitter draught of sterile sin!
Are not the eyes of sleep already dull,
The lashes drooping over their desire?
Are not the gods awaiting to annul
With Lethe the last flicker of the fire?
Ay, let us kiss, my darling; let us twitch
For the last time the flesh against the flesh,
Before the coming of the lovely witch
That shall excite our sleepy souls afresh,
Anointing us with subtle drugs and suave,
Fit for the grave, for love beyond the grave!
— 126 —
