Rondeau.
THY breast, dear Doris, ever be
All-hallowed, consecrate to me,
A rest where this my heart may go
Whatever tempests beat and blow;
A shelter that my soul may see
Though all the world speak grievously.
Warmed in its softness, dear, by thee,
My love shall sometime come to know
Thy breast.
And sometime, too, so reverently
Thou couldst not, Sweet, refuse my plea.
I’ll kiss the dimple that I know
Betwixt those little hills of snow
Waits, till my lips press passionately
Thy breast!...