Give me your lips:
Like to some scarlet fruit of Paradise
That grew before the gates were barred,
They burn upon my eyes;
Or like to scarlet flowers,
Wherefrom a sweet and subtle poison drips;
Or crimson jewels, cold and hard,
That kissed of my desire,
Shall magically melt to wine and fire
To wine beyond the wine of earthly hours
To fire
More than the fire of heavens many-starred.
Give me your lips:
When you have laid your vermeil mouth on mine,
No draught, no anodyne,
Nor comb wherefrom the amber honey drips;
No marsh drunk beneath the desert skies,
Nor all the green and bitter wine of seas;
No dews of Lethe nor of Paradise
Not one, nor all of these,
Shall take away the taste of fire and wine
Your lips have left on mine.