76
HOURS OF IDLENESS.
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss;
Nor then my soul should sated be,
Still would I kiss and cling to thee:
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever,
Still would we kiss and kiss for ever;
E'en though the numbers did exceed[1]
The yellow harvest's countless seed;
To part would be a vain endeavour:
Could I desist?—ah! never—never.
November 16, 1806.
TO M. S. G.
1.
Whene'er I view those lips of thine,
Their hue invites my fervent kiss;
Yet, I forego that bliss divine,
Alas! it were—unhallow'd bliss.
2.
Whene'er I dream of that pure breast,
How could I dwell upon its snows!
Yet, is the daring wish represt,
For that,—would banish its repose.
- ↑ E'en though the number.—[4to. Three first Editions.]
