AND her red lips
Panted for love, as thirsty deer at noon
Pant for the shadowed brook at eventide.
There darted through the ever-glistening white
Of her fair bosom streams of sunset glow;
More rapid in their course than Simois,
More burning than the sun of Araby,
More perfumed than the sweetly scented breeze
Blown from Sicilian golden orange groves.
And from the shaded grotto of her eye
Hung a clear, crystal, cooling, dewy tear,
Sprung from the very ardor of her gaze;
Enticing as the nectar of the gods
To thirsty lip and throat. Her golden hair
Seemed bent to hide what it could not conceal;