POET, take thy lute and kiss my mouth! The wild rose feels her tender buds grow ripe; Spring is born to-night, and winds fly south; Waiting for the dawn the throstles swing On the first green bushes burgeoning. Poet, kiss my mouth and tune thy pipe! Poet, take thy lute! Night on the lawn Wafts the wind in odorous veils she slips; The virgin rose shuts jealously indrawn The pearly hornet dying in a swoon. Poet, take thy lute, and grant this boon— On my eager mouth to lay thy lips! Poet, take thy lute! Youth's kindling wine Sweeps God's veins to-night in seething flood. I am troubled; joy oppresses; winds divine Set fire upon my lips from out the South. Poet, take thy lute and kiss my mouth; Quench my thirsty longing with thy wood! |