Thou comfortest me with the manna of thy love,
And the kisses of thy mouth are wine and sustenance;
They are grateful as fruit
In lonely orchards by the wayside of a ruinous land,
They are sweet as the purple grapes
On parching hills that confront the autumnal desert,
Or apples that the mad simoom hath spared
In a garden with walls of syenite.
Thy loosened hair is a veil
For the weariness of mine eyes and eyelids,
Which have known the redoubled sun
In a desert valley with slopes of the dust of white marble,
And have gazed on the mounded salt
In the marshes of a lake of dead waters.
Thy body is a secret Eden
Fed with lethean springs,
And the touch of thy flesh is like to the savor of lotos.
In thy hair is a perfume of ecstasy,
And a perfume of sleep;
Between thy thighs is a valley of delight,
And a valley of peace.