As that which in thee lies,—
An evanescent draft, whose incense mounts the skies.
And, pipe, a breath like thine;
Her hair an amber gold,
And wrought in shapes as fine
As that which now I hold;
A grace in every limb, her form thy slender mould.
And when her lips I kiss,
Oh, may she burn like thee,
And strive to give me bliss!