(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.Far dearer thou, my gentle one, to me,And happy I—distracted more by thee—When yielding to long prayers with gentle grace,You press me softly in your meek embrace;Modestly cold, to love with passion fraughtYou scarce respond; you conscience seem of naught;Yet warm and warmer glowing, till at last,As ’twere against your will, you share my blast.
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.Far dearer thou, my gentle one, to me,And happy I—distracted more by thee—When yielding to long prayers with gentle grace,You press me softly in your meek embrace;Modestly cold, to love with passion fraughtYou scarce respond; you conscience seem of naught;Yet warm and warmer glowing, till at last,As ’twere against your will, you share my blast.
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.
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.
Far dearer thou, my gentle one, to me,And happy I—distracted more by thee—When yielding to long prayers with gentle grace,You press me softly in your meek embrace;Modestly cold, to love with passion fraughtYou scarce respond; you conscience seem of naught;Yet warm and warmer glowing, till at last,As ’twere against your will, you share my blast.
Far dearer thou, my gentle one, to me,
And happy I—distracted more by thee—
When yielding to long prayers with gentle grace,
You press me softly in your meek embrace;
Modestly cold, to love with passion fraught
You scarce respond; you conscience seem of naught;
Yet warm and warmer glowing, till at last,
As ’twere against your will, you share my blast.