And kiss his mouth, To heart’s desire, And on his kisses At last expire! Numberless poets have varied the theme of the quenching yet burning kisses of love. O’er me flows in streams delicious Kisses’ rosy and glowing rain, W. F. H. sings Waldemar at his meeting with Tove, and Aarestrup laments: In vain I’m seeking In ev’ry land, Thy sweetness burning Of mouth and hand. W. F. H. This “burning sweetness” seems to be an indubitable characteristic of a genuine love kiss; we even find it again in Heine: The world’s an ass, the world can’t see, Thy character not knowing, It knows not how sweet thy kisses be, How rapturously glowing. The emotions consequent on the first kiss have been described in the old _naïve_, but, nevertheless, exceedingly delicate love-story, of Daphnis and Chloe. As a reward Chloe has bestowed a kiss on Daphnis--an innocent young-maid’s kiss, but it has on him the effect of an electrical shock: “Ye gods, what are my feelings. Her lips are softer than the rose’s leaf, her mouth is sweet as honey, and her kiss inflicts on me more pain than a bee’s sting. I have often kissed my kids, I have often kissed my lambs, but never have I known aught like this. My pulse is beating fast, my heart throbs, it is as if I were about to suffocate, yet, nevertheless, I want to have another kiss. Strange, never-suspected pain! Has Chloe, I wonder, drunk some poisonous draught ere she kissed me? How comes it that she herself has not died of it?” Impelled, as it were, by some irresistible force, Daphnis wanders back to Chloe; he finds her asleep, but dares not awake her: “See how her eyes slumber and her mouth breathes. The scent of apple-blossoms is not so delicious as her breath. But I dare not kiss her. Her kiss stings me to the heart, and drives me as mad as if I had eaten fresh honey.” Daphnis’ fear of kisses disappears, however, later on, directly his simplicity has made room for greater selfconsciousness. That a kiss is like the sting of a bee, or pains like a wound, is a metaphor which many poets have used, and the metaphor comes undoubtedly near the truth. With growing passion, kisses become mad and violent: Thy ruby lips, they kissed so wild, So madly, so soul-disturbing; W. F. H. and such kisses leave marks behind them. Aarestrup’s mistress has beautiful plump shoulders: They curve, as of a goddess, So naked and so bold. I’ll brand your comely shoulders, Such guerdon have they earned! Look where my lips enfevered Have scars of crimson burned. W. F. H.