Come back to me, lull me with the touch of forgotten caresses,
One warmdream clad about with a fire as of life that endures;
The delight of thy face, and the cound of thy feet, and the wind of thy tresses,
And all of a man that regrets, and all of a maid that allures.
For thy bosom is warm to my face, and profound as a manifold flower,
Thy silence as music, thy voice as an odour that dies in a flame;
Not a dream, not a dream is the kiss of thyy mouth, and the bountiful hour
That makes me forget what was sin, and would make me forget were it shame.
Thine eyes thaat are quiet, thine hands that are tender, thy lips that are loving,
comfort and cool me as dew in the dawn of a moon like a dream;
And my heart yearns baffled and blind, moved vainly towards thee, and moving
As the refluent seaweed moves in the languid exuberant stream.
Swinburne
Posted by oz/myartpage
at 9:48 PM PDT
Updated: Saturday, 17 July 2004 12:43 AM PDT
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Updated: Saturday, 17 July 2004 12:43 AM PDT
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