THE LADY
I say not that: yet prithee have a care!
Often audacity has proved a snare.
How wan and pale do moon-kissed roses grow—
Dost thou not fear my kisses, Pierrot?
PIERROT
As one who faints upon the Libyan plain
Fears the oasis which brings life again!
THE LADY
Where far away green palm trees seem to stand
May be a mirage of the wreathing sand.
PIERROT
Nay, dear enchantress, I consider naught,
Save mine own ignorance, which would be taught.
THE LADY
Dost thou persist?
PIERROT
I do entreat this boon!
[She bends forward, their lips meet: she withdraws with a petulant shiver. She utters a peal of clear laughter.]
THE LADY
Why art thou pale, fond lover of the moon?
PIERROT
Cold are thy lips, more cold than I can tell
Yet would I hang on them, thine icicle!
Cold is thy kiss, more cold than I could dream
Arctus sits, watching the Boreal stream:
But with its frost such sweetness did conspire
That all my veins are filled with running fire;
Never I knew that life contained such bliss
As the divine completeness of a kiss.
THE LADY
Apt scholar! so love's lesson has been taught,
Warning, as usual, has gone for naught.