(From Christophe des Laurières)

Low-lidded eyes thou hast,
But all too beautiful for love to bear:
Fain would I kiss them fast
Like tranquil flowers closing
Tired with the burden of the sunset air.

The bosom's mootful white
Is softly curved, but fraught with poignant sorrow:
Thereon my lips reposing
In long and proved delight
A comfort from their present bane would borrow.