Now that my limbs about thee have been wound,
And that my lips have fed upon thy face,
Nothing shall tear thee more from my embrace;
Dearer thou art to me than all that dwell
In the wide triple realms, Earth, Heaven and Hell.
Thou art my fruitful vineyard, and my well,
My gilded mountain top, and flowery dell
Whereon my lips shall pasture all the night,
Vanishing only with the morning light.
For in thy arms the olden joys I taste,