The trance gave way To those caresses, when a hundred times In that last kiss, which never was the last, Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died. TENNYSON: _Love and Duty_. * * * * * Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips. TENNYSON: _Locksley Hall_. * * * * * When I was wont to meet her In the silent woody places By the home that gave me birth, We stood tranced in long embraces Mixed with kisses sweeter, sweeter Than anything on earth. TENNYSON: _Maud_. * * * * * They found the stately horse, Who now, no more a vassal to the thief, But free to stretch his limbs in lawful flight, Neighed with all gladness as they came, and stooped With a low whinny toward the pair; and she Kissed the white star upon his noble front, Glad also: then Geraint upon the horse Mounted, and reached a hand, and on his foot She set her own and climbed; he turned his face And kissed her climbing, and she cast her arms About him, and at once they rode away. TENNYSON: _Enid_. * * * * * Ah, one rose, One rose, but one, by those fair fingers culled, Were worth a hundred kisses pressed on lips Less exquisite than thine. TENNYSON: _Gardener’s Daughter_. * * * * * Then stood the maiden hushed in sweet surprise, And with her clasped hands held her heart-throbs down Beneath the wondrous brightness of his eyes, Whose smile seemed to enwreathe her like a crown. He raised no wand, he gave no strange commands, But touched her eyes with tender touch and light, With charmed lips kissed apart her folded hands, And laid therein the lily, snowy white. WILSON: _Magic Pitcher_. * * * * * Ah, sad are they who know not love, But, far from passion’s tears and smiles, Drift down a moonless sea, beyond The silvery coasts of fairy isles. And sadder they whose longing lips Kiss empty air, and never touch The dear warm mouth of those they love— Waiting, wasting, suffering much. ALDRICH: _Persian Love-Song_. * * * * * Yes, child, I know I am out of tune; The light is bad; the sky is gray; I’ll work no more this afternoon, So lay your royal robes away. Besides, you’re dreamy—hand on chin— I know not what—not in the vein: While I would paint Anne Boleyn, You sit there looking like Elaine.