ELAINE

ELAINE, my bright-eyed, my sunlight, my passion,
Lay your proud head on my bosom to-night.
Old loves and old love-songs have gone out of fashion,
And Mammon is king, by divinest of right.

Press the full breasts that are lovingly beating,
Close to the heart that is throbbing for you.
Shut out the moonlight. The night is too fleeting.—
Oh, lips that are moist with the soul’s honey-dew,
Draw hard on the spirit through lips that, responding,
As powder to fire, flash their blood-life to you.

Press me, oh press me, strong-handed, white-throated,
To your rosy-tipped bosom, till daylight peeps through
The casement, o’er landscapes starlighted, moss-moated,
And the tame upland meadows thick jeweled with dew.