THE KISS.
One kiss, dear maid, I said, and sighed;
Your scorn the little boon denied.
Ah, why refuse the blameless bliss?
Can danger lurk within a kiss?
Yon viewless wanderer of the vale,
The spirit of the western gale,
At morning’s break, at evening’s close,
Inhales the sweetness of the rose,
And hovers o’er th’ uninjured bloom,
Sighing back the soft perfume.
Her nectar-breathing kisses fling
Vigor to the zephyr’s wing,
And she the glitter of the dew
Scatters on the rose’s hue.
Bashful, lo! she bends her head,
And darts a blush of deeper red.
Too well those lovely lips disclose
The triumphs of the opening rose:
O fair! O graceful! bid them prove
As passive to the breath of love!
In tender accents, faint and low,
Well pleased I hear the whispered “No!”
The whispered “No!” how little meant,
Sweet falsehood that endears consent!
For on those lovely lips the while
Dawns the soft relenting smile,
And tempts, with feigned dissuasive coy,
The gentle violence of the joy.
Coleridge.
