You, Helen, who see the stars
As mistletoe berries burning in
a black tree,
You
surely, seeing I am a bowl of kisses,
Should put your mouth to mine and drink of
me.
Helen, you let my kisses steam
Wasteful into the night’s black
nostrils; drink
Me
up I pray; oh you who are Night’s Bacchante,
How can you from my bowl of
kisses shrink!