STOLEN WATERS.
173
"Sweet is the stolen draught," she said;
"Hath sweetness stint or measure?
Pleasant the secret hoard of bread;
What bars us from our pleasure?"
"Yea, take we pleasure while we may,"
I heard myself replying;
In the red sunset, far away,
My happier life was dying:
My heart was sad, my voice was gay.
And unawares, I knew not how,
I kissed her dainty finger-tips,
I kissed her on the lily brow,
I kissed her on the false, false lips—
That burning kiss, I feel it now!
"True love gives true love of the best:
Then take," I cried, "my heart to thee!"
