Treasure Island

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

(1772-1834 / Devon / England)

Kisses


Cupid, if storying legends tell aright,
Once framed a rich elixer of delight.
A chalice o'er love-kindled flames he fixed,
And in it nectar and ambrosia mixed:
With these the magic dews which evening brings,
Brushed from the Idalian star by fairy wings:
Each tender pledge of sacred faith he joined,
Each gentler pleasure of th' unspotted mind--
Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness glow,
And hope, the blameless parasite of woe.
The eyeless chemist heard the process rise,
The steamy chalice bubbled up in sighs;
Sweet sounds transpired as when the enamoured dove
Pours the soft murmuring of responsive love.
The finished work might envy vainly blame,
And 'kisses' was the precious compound's name.
With half, the god his Cyprian mother blest,
And breathed on Sara's lovelier lips the rest.

Submitted: Wednesday, March 31, 2010

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