Bliss unheeded—trust unsought—
Can they quench the constant thought
Of our dreamy ocean-cells?
Though the glowing bands we form,
Oft by redder lips be pressed,
And a slumber, soft and warm,
Fold us on a dove-like breast,—
Not to love, but love's bestowing
Gentle care and kiss are owing:—
Is the passion changed or cloyed,