Is’t for a grace, or is’t some dislike, Where others give ye lippe you give the cheeke; Some houlde it for a pride of your behaviour, But I do rather count it as a favour. Wherefore to shew my kindnesse and my love, I leave both lippes and cheekes, and kisse your glove. Now what’s the cause? To make you full acquainted, Your glove’s perfumed, your lippes and cheekes bepainted. THE SOURCE ALIKE OF LIFE AND DEATH. Nature that gave the bee so feate a grace To find honey of so wondrous fashion, Hath taught the spyder out of the same place To fetch poyson by strange alteration, Though this be strange, it is a stranger case With one kiss, by a secret operation, Both these at once in those your lips to finde, In change whereof I leave my heart behinde. SIR THOMAS WYATT. ON A LADY STUNG BY A BEE. To heal the wound the bee had made Upon my Delia’s face, Its honey to the wound she laid, And bid me kiss the place. Pleased, I obeyed, and from the wound Sucked both the sweet and smart: The honey on my lips I found, The sting went through my heart. THE KISS IN METAPHOR. MORNING SONG. Speed, zephyr! kiss each opening flower, Its fragrant spirit make thine own, Then wing thy way to Rosa’s bower,’ Ere her light sleep is flown. There, o’er her downy pillow fly, Wake the sweet maid to life and day: Breathe on her balmy lip a sigh, And o’er her bosom play. MRS. HEMANS. SUNRISE ON THE HILLS. I stood upon the hills, when heaven’s wide arch Was glorious with the sun’s returning march, And woods were brightened, and soft gales Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. LONGFELLOW. SPRING. No icy fetters hold the stream; The sun’s bright beam Comes dancing o’er it to my feet; The violets that skirt the bank Bend down to thank The laughing stream with kisses sweet. SPRING FLOWERS Spring has come with a smile of blessing, Kissing the earth with her soft warm breath, Till it blushes in flowers at her gentle caressing, And wakes from the winter’s dream of death. THE VIOLETS. Close by the roots of moss-grown stumps,— The sweetest and the first to blow,— The blue-eyed violets, in clumps, Kiss one another as they grow; And, kissing one another, blend Their dewy tears upon the earth, And purest fragrance upward send, Unconscious types of modest worth! SPRING SONG. When the soft winds blow, And kiss away the snow,— When the bluebirds sing, For the dear warm spring,— Then we’ll go a-Maying, Through the meadows straying. ROSE TERRY. AUTUMN.