Nor ever opens its dank gates to day!
O, come ere we are lost! Be thy fair arms
The rainbow girdle to this longing storm
And its rude breast will pillow thee as soft
As Leda when, cool-rocked on lily couch,
The great down-bosomed god swam to her love!
Come, Aratea, heart of life! O now
This pulse speaks back to mine—this bosom throbs
Like heaven's Artemis unto her own!
[Kisses her]