Sonnet Ccxciii: Poem by George Henry Boker

As from his wrist the eager falconer
Tosses his hawk upon the windy sky,
So from my lips this kiss I toss on high,
Through leagues of weary air to follow her.
Mount to the zenith, instinct with the spur
Of what I feel; and by thy love-led eye,
Discern thy gentle quarry; hover nigh;
Yet with no fears her virgin bosom stir.
When sleep enfolds her, then thou too mayst lay
Thy touch upon her. Let me tell thee where;
Thou canst not err to kiss from foot to hair.
But O, thou tender messenger, I pray,
So wake her fancy that a dream may play
About her heart to tell who sent thee there.