You two, who woo, take record of to-night;(This corner, that arc-light):For you may never feel againSuch joyful pain.
Your bodies, which do tremble, thrill and rockIn one bright carnal shock,Will cool: your senses will relaxFrom their climax.
Hectic virgin fury rinsed with dew;Red nerves; white lust!-If youCould only keep in jewel-caseThe word, the face.
To see you pull upon each other's flesh,And how you strain the mesh,I fear eventual narrow bedIn which you'll wed.
You group your bodies like old potter's ware,Moulded that people stare,And placed on chimney-piece apartTo please their heart.
I hope you'll not be thwarted in your lustNow while you so trust.You are too like that vernal green,Once only seen.
Here is an orchard. While the fruit be sweetPluck all you can, and eat.So many lovers mix like you,But which are true?
