Thou art the breath of my body, The blood in my veins, and the glowing Pulse of my bosom. Omnipotent, burning, resistless, Thou art the passion that shaking Masters me ever. Thou art the crisis of rapture Relaxing my limbs, and the melting Ebb of emotion; Bringing the tears to my lashes, Sighs to my lips, in the swooning Excess of passion. O golden-crowned Aphrodite, Grant I shall ever be grateful, Sure of thy favor; Worthy the lot of thy priestess, Supreme in the song that forever Rings with thy praises. THE FIRST KISS And down I set the cushion Upon the couch that she, Relaxed supine upon it, Might give her lips to me. As some enamored priestess At Aphrodite's shrine, Entranced I bent above her With sense of the divine. She had, by nature nubile, In years a child, no hint Of any secret knowledge Of passion's least intent. Her mouth for immolation Was ripe, and mine the art; And one long kiss of passion Deflowered her virgin heart. ODE TO ATTHIS I loved you, Atthis, once, long years ago! My blood was flame that thrilled to passion's throe; Now long neglect has quenched the olden fire, And blight of drifting years effaced desire. I loved you, Atthis--joy of long ago-- Love shook my soul as winds on forests blow; This lawless heart that dared exhaust delight, Unsated strove and maddened through the night. I loved you, Atthis, once, long years ago! With pain whose surge I felt to anguish grow; Suffered the storms that waste the heart and leave A desert shore where seas but break to grieve. I loved you, Atthis--spring of long ago-- Watched you depart, to Andromeda go; Then I, as keen despair its shadow cast, O'er my deserted threshold, sobbing, passed. I loved you, Atthis, once, long years ago! The thought of me is hateful now, I know; And all the lavish tenderness of old Has gone from me and left my bosom cold. I loved you, Atthis--dream of long ago-- * * * * * * * * * * * * * How the fond words, impassioned music low, Sustain the sigh of love's divine regret No length of time may bid the heart forget. COMPARISON Less soft a Tyrian robe Of texture fine, Less delicate a rose Than flesh of thine. Whiter thy breast than snow That virgin lies, And deeper than the blue Of seas thy eyes. More golden than the fruit Of orange trees, Thy locks that floating lure The satyr breeze. Less fine of silver string An Orphic lyre, Less sweet than thy low laugh That wakes desire. THE SACRIFICE