Forward and backward through the air?
What does he think of his mother’s breast—
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white,
Seeking it ever with fresh delight—
Cup of his joy and couch of his rest?
What does he think when her quick embrace
Presses his hand and buries his face
Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell
With a tenderness she can never tell,
Though she murmur the words