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"Thy mouth and thy lip", I asked her, "Me blest when will they make?"
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Sweet is seclusion, if the Friend In company with me be
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The Love of a youngling maid In my head grown white hath fallen
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At dawntide, when the Orient's king His standards on the hill-tops pight
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In the days of the error-hiding, Transgression-pardoning king
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If I on the dust of the sole Of the foot of the fair one light
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A Lover of fair faces And heart-alluring hair
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Full blown the red rose is and drunken Become is the nightingale
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If default from out thy musky Tress's hair hath past, 'tis past
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Crowned kings the bondmen of thy drowsed Narcissus-eyne are still
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