Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet; Love with sad kisses unfelt hath prest Thy meek-dropt eyelids and quiet breast; And the glad Spring, calling out bird and bee, Shall color all blossoms, fair child, but thee. MRS. HEMANS. * * * * * She wiped the death-damps from his brow, With her pale hands and soft, Whose touch upon the lute-chords low Had stilled his heart so oft. She spread her mantle o’er his breast, She bathed his lips with dew, And on his cheeks such kisses pressed As hope and joy ne’er knew. MRS. HEMANS. * * * * * Jenny kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in; Time, you thief! who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in. Say I’m weary, say I’m sad, Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I’m growing old, but add— Jenny kissed me! LEIGH HUNT. * * * * * I classed and counted once Earth’s lamentable sounds,—the well-a-day, The jarring yea and nay, The fall of kisses upon senseless clay. MRS. BROWNING. * * * * * There were words That broke in utterance—melted in the fire; Embrace, that was convulsion; then a kiss, As long and silent as the ecstatic night, And deep, deep shuddering breaths, which meant beyond Whatever could be told by word or kiss. MRS. BROWNING. * * * * * First time he kissed me, but he only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And, ever since, it grew more clear and white, Slow to world greeting; quick with its “Oh, list!” When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst, I could not wear it plainer to my sight Than that first kiss. The second passed in height The first, and sought the forehead; and half missed. Falling upon my hair. Oh, beyond meed! That was the chrism of love, which love’s own crown, With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. The third upon my lips was folded down In perfect purple state! Since when, indeed, I have been proud, and said, “My love, my own!” MRS. BROWNING. * * * * * He will kiss me on the mouth Then; and lead me as a lover Through the crowds that praise his deeds. MRS. BROWNING. * * * * * Love feareth death! I was no child—I was betrothed that day; I wore a troth-kiss on my lips I could not give away. MRS. BROWNING. * * * * *