For tho’ I may dare not speak,
as I have no lyric or its words,
‘ere then this Love has no voice,
but of your sweetest lips to kiss.
Beauty, too, may oft be silent,
leaving its caress e’er but soft,
tho’ wildly hewn, in your eyes,
and I, in kind, must answer this.
This single kiss may not suffice,
but rather, too, that by my hand,
shall I embrace wildly your form,
and by reply, then Love is heard.
Then, with our wild, wetted ways,
in silence, we sigh, breathlessly,
speaking to Beauty, mountainous,
and ‘ere we then grapple a word.
And of this bed, laden with silk,
gilded now by yon spectacle moon,
shall I lay your flesh, unyielding,
and speak then but wisely to Love.
But, with a turn of your last sigh,
as breath is but a torment given,
leave me raw, and wildly undone,
that o’er these clouds, I rise above.