By the love-light in their eyes,
Where, its tale of joyance telling,
The languid flame doth rise.
(TO HIS WIFE.)
No! not for me the wild tumultuous gladness,
The rapturous rush, the transports, and the madness,
The moans, the cries, the young Bacchante makes,
When, clinging close in coilings like a snake’s,
With wounding kiss, and gush of hot caresses,
For the last moments’ thrills she quiveringly presses.