Lips that cling close, and never seem to meet,
Melting as sunlight melts in wine! Arise!
Shame! Has thy learning left thee overwise?
Thy lips sing fondly—to another tune.
Nay! ’twas my breathing beauty made thee swoon,
Dread forkéd fire across the cloven sky;
Stripped off thy body of mortality—
Nay, but on steeper slopes my love shall strive!
Our bodies perish and our hearts revive
Vainly, unless the shaking sense beware