Sonnet Cclxx: Poem by George Henry Boker

Her mouth, that scarlet herald of her heart,
Pouts just a little, but enough to tell
That nature's self, who knew her purpose well,
Laid endless kisses on its topmost part.
These moulded lips were never shaped to dart
The serpent tongue of slander; never fell
From their bright dews that blistering rain of hell,
Which envy scatters through the lying mart.
Free of all sin, their function is to guide,
To sooth and lighten this confusing pain,
Which I call life, when absent from her side.
Yea, and incitements, when my spirits wane,
Have they to offer; words of cheer and pride,
Kisses like these, again and yet again!