Classic Poem

An early dew woos the half-opened flowers,
Wind of the south, dear child,
Close clings about their stalks for drunken hours;
And yet your eyes, dear child,
Cool pools which rise, dear child,
High in the mountains of my soul,
These, these
The lips have drunken whole;
And yet your mouth, dear child,
Your mouth, dear child, is envied of the bees.