20
POTIPHAR'S WIFE
Deeming the boy relenting, sheathed her blade,
And with close-winding arms a warm chain made
And with close-winding arms a warm chain made
XLI.
About his beating breast, and drew him down
Against her mouth, and dragged "nay! nay!" away
In such a cleaving kiss his sense did swoon,
His tongue, shut in with honey, naught could say;
His eyes, meeting her eyes, such fierce flame took
They dropped their lids not to be lightning-strook.
About his beating breast, and drew him down
Against her mouth, and dragged "nay! nay!" away
In such a cleaving kiss his sense did swoon,
His tongue, shut in with honey, naught could say;
His eyes, meeting her eyes, such fierce flame took
They dropped their lids not to be lightning-strook.
XLII.
Then, while he sank back, will-less, on the silk,
She rose, of triumph sure, and deftly drew
Prom her smooth shoulders,—brown and smooth as milk
With palm-wine mixed—that scarf of purple hue
Veiling her bosom's splendours; this she bore,
Quick-tripping, to the niche beside the door,
Then, while he sank back, will-less, on the silk,
She rose, of triumph sure, and deftly drew
Prom her smooth shoulders,—brown and smooth as milk
With palm-wine mixed—that scarf of purple hue
Veiling her bosom's splendours; this she bore,
Quick-tripping, to the niche beside the door,
