O kiss that holds the mornings of all time,
And dewy seasons of the ungathered rose,
Plant once again thy summer on my lips!
Ara. How dear is death that kisses with such breath!
Thine eyes are seas where sighing ardors blow
Love's argosies from island bowers of dream
Into my heart. Save me, Aristocles!
O me, I'm netted in these golden curls
With web as sure as that the crafty god
Once wove round Aphrodite's blushing bed