Poetry on Kiss

What smouldering senses in death's sick delayOr seizure of malign vicissitudeCan rob this body of honour, or denudeThis soul of wedding-raiment worn to-day?For lo! even now my lady's lips did playWith these my lips such consonant interludeAs laurelled Orpheus longed for when he wooedThe half-drawn hungering face with that last lay.I was a child beneath her touch,-- a manWhen breast to breast we