This thing I hold so closely in my arms,
Feeling its heart leap strongly at my kiss,
Its eyes closed gently like two cloud-veiled stars,
Its breath like some soft night wind on my neck;
What is it? This soft thing I hold so closely?

Ah, head, like some pale flower asleep in shade,
Ah, breast, at which my passionate hands have thrilled,
O languid arms and white hands veined with blue,
A little while and these may be a lump
To make me shudder with a dismal dread!

O precious Thing of Flesh!
Let me exhaust the softness of your cheek
With one long desperate kiss, as one who drinks
The final maddening drop before the cup
Be shattered into dust! O let me breathe
Your breath that I have made more quick and warm,

As one who drowns and takes the latest gasp!
The time may come when my fond touch shall fail
To cause your sigh, and my hot kiss be vain
To make your blue-veined temples throb as now.

I see your sunken eyes, your rose-like cheek
Burned black with agony! And I shall be
So jealous of the ground that shall embrace you,
So jealous of the grass that grows above you,
So jealous of the silence that enfolds you.