While she gropes broken-hearted down the night.
Pull low that purple lilac! Yes!—this way.
When—list!—you kiss me thus, let her not see,
She’s so athirst for love she’d envy me,
Poor, poor lost lonely one, wound her not, pray!
Why, Dear, the glad great gods themselves I think
For kisses such as these would cross death’s brink!
LXII
“Venisti. O nuntii beati.”
Catullus