Puisi Bahasa Inggris tentang Cinta (D. H. Lawrence)
Kali ini sederet.com akan mempersembahkan puisi cinta karya D. H. Lawrence. Lawrence adalah penulis yang hidup di akhir tahun 1800-an sampai awal 1900-an. Walaupun Lawrence terkenal karena buku-buku yang ditulisnya, dia telah membuat puisi sekitar 800-an jumlahnya. Berikut kumpulan puisinya yang bertemakan cinta.
The morning breaks like a pomegranate In a shining crack of red, Ah, when to-morrow the dawn comes late Whitening across the bed, It will find me watching at the marriage gate And waiting while light is shed On him who is sleeping satiate, With a sunk, abandoned head. And when the dawn comes creeping in, Cautiously I shall raise Myself to watch the morning win My first of days, As it shows him sleeping a sleep he got Of me, as under my gaze, He grows distinct, and I see his hot Face freed of the wavering blaze. Then I shall know which image of God My man is made toward, And I shall know my bitter rod Or my rich reward. And I shall know the stamp and worth Of the coin I've accepted as mine, Shall see an image of heaven or of earth On his minted metal shine. Yea and I long to see him sleep In my power utterly, I long to know what I have to keep, I long to see My love, that spinning coin, laid still And plain at the side of me, For me to count--for I know he will Greatly enrichen me. And then he will be mine, he will lie In my power utterly, Opening his value plain to my eye He will sleep of me. He will lie negligent, resign His all to me, and I Shall watch the dawn light up for me This sleeping wealth of mine. And I shall watch the wan light shine On his sleep that is filled of me, On his brow where the wisps of fond hair twine So truthfully, On his lips where the light breaths come and go Naïve and winsomely, On his limbs that I shall weep to know Lie under my mastery.
KISSES IN THE TRAIN
I saw the midlands Revolve through her hair; The fields of autumn Stretching bare, And sheep on the pasture Tossed back in a scare. And still as ever The world went round, My mouth on her pulsing Neck was found, And my breast to her beating Breast was bound. But my heart at the centre Of all, in a swound Was still as a pivot, As all the ground On its prowling orbit Shifted round. And still in my nostrils The scent of her flesh, And still my wet mouth Sought her afresh; And still one pulse Through the world did thresh. And the world all whirling Around in joy Like the dance of a dervish Did destroy My sense--and my reason Spun like a toy. But firm at the centre My heart was found; Her own to my perfect Heart-beat bound, Like a magnet's keeper Closing the round.
CRUELTY AND LOVE
What large, dark hands are those at the window Lifted, grasping the golden light Which weaves its way through the creeper leaves To my heart's delight? Ah, only the leaves! But in the west, In the west I see a redness come Over the evening's burning breast-- --'Tis the wound of love goes home! The woodbine creeps abroad Calling low to her lover: The sun-lit flirt who all the day Has poised above her lips in play And stolen kisses, shallow and gay Of pollen, now has gone away --She woos the moth with her sweet, low word, And when above her his broad wings hover Then her bright breast she will uncover And yield her honey-drop to her lover. Into the yellow, evening glow Saunters a man from the farm below, Leans, and looks in at the low-built shed Where hangs the swallow's marriage bed. The bird lies warm against the wall. She glances quick her startled eyes Towards him, then she turns away Her small head, making warm display Of red upon the throat. His terrors sway Her out of the nest's warm, busy ball, Whose plaintive cry is heard as she flies In one blue stoop from out the sties Into the evening's empty hall. Oh, water-hen, beside the rushes Hide your quaint, unfading blushes, Still your quick tail, and lie as dead, Till the distance folds over his ominous tread. The rabbit presses back her ears, Turns back her liquid, anguished eyes And crouches low: then with wild spring Spurts from the terror of _his_ oncoming To be choked back, the wire ring Her frantic effort throttling: Piteous brown ball of quivering fears! Ah soon in his large, hard hands she dies, And swings all loose to the swing of his walk. Yet calm and kindly are his eyes And ready to open in brown surprise Should I not answer to his talk Or should he my tears surmise. I hear his hand on the latch, and rise from my chair Watching the door open: he flashes bare His strong teeth in a smile, and flashes his eyes In a smile like triumph upon me; then careless-wise He flings the rabbit soft on the table board And comes towards me: ah, the uplifted sword Of his hand against my bosom, and oh, the broad Blade of his hand that raise my face to applaud His coming: he raises up my face to him And caresses my mouth with his fingers, which still smell grim Of the rabbit's fur! God, I am caught in a snare! I know not what fine wire is round my throat, I only know I let him finger there My pulse of life, letting him nose like a stoat Who sniffs with joy before he drinks the blood: And down his mouth comes to my mouth, and down His dark bright eyes descend like a fiery hood Upon my mind: his mouth meets mine, and a flood Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown Within him, die, and find death good.
Under the long, dark boughs, like jewels red In the hair of an Eastern girl Shine strings of crimson cherries, as if had bled Blood-drops beneath each curl. Under the glistening cherries, with folded wings Three dead birds lie: Pale-breasted throstles and a blackbird, robberlings Stained with red dye. Under the haystack a girl stands laughing at me, With cherries hung round her ears-- Offering me her scarlet fruit: I will see If she has any tears.
LILIES IN THE FIRE
I Ah, you stack of white lilies, all white and gold, I am adrift as a sunbeam, and without form Or having, save I light on you to warm Your pallor into radiance, flush your cold White beauty into incandescence: you Are not a stack of white lilies to-night, but a white And clustered star transfigured by me to-night, And lighting these ruddy leaves like a star dropped through The slender bare arms of the branches, your tire-maidens Who lift swart arms to fend me off; but I come Like a wind of fire upon you, like to some Stray whitebeam who on you his fire unladens. And you are a glistening toadstool shining here Among the crumpled beech-leaves phosphorescent, My stack of white lilies burning incandescent Of me, a soft white star among the leaves, my dear. II Is it with pain, my dear, that you shudder so? Is it because I have hurt you with pain, my dear? Did I shiver?--Nay, truly I did not know-- A dewdrop may-be splashed on my face down here. Why even now you speak through close-shut teeth. I have been too much for you--Ah, I remember! The ground is a little chilly underneath The leaves--and, dear, you consume me all to an ember. You hold yourself all hard as if my kisses Hurt as I gave them--you put me away-- Ah never I put you away: yet each kiss hisses Hot as a drop of fire wastes me away. III I am ashamed, you wanted me not to-night-- Nay, it is always so, you sigh with me. Your radiance dims when I draw too near, and my free Fire enters your petals like death, you wilt dead white. Ah, I do know, and I am deep ashamed; You love me while I hover tenderly Like clinging sunbeams kissing you: but see When I close in fire upon you, and you are flamed With the swiftest fire of my love, you are destroyed. 'Tis a degradation deep to me, that my best Soul's whitest lightning which should bright attest God stepping down to earth in one white stride, Means only to you a clogged, numb burden of flesh Heavy to bear, even heavy to uprear Again from earth, like lilies wilted and sere Flagged on the floor, that before stood up so fresh.
COLDNESS IN LOVE
And you remember, in the afternoon The sea and the sky went grey, as if there had sunk A flocculent dust on the floor of the world: the festoon Of the sky sagged dusty as spider cloth, And coldness clogged the sea, till it ceased to croon. A dank, sickening scent came up from the grime Of weed that blackened the shore, so that I recoiled Feeling the raw cold dun me: and all the time You leapt about on the slippery rocks, and threw The words that rang with a brassy, shallow chime. And all day long that raw and ancient cold Deadened me through, till the grey downs darkened to sleep. Then I longed for you with your mantle of love to fold Me over, and drive from out of my body the deep Cold that had sunk to my soul, and there kept hold. But still to me all evening long you were cold, And I was numb with a bitter, deathly ache; Till old days drew me back into their fold, And dim sheep crowded me warm with companionship, And old ghosts clustered me close, and sleep was cajoled. I slept till dawn at the window blew in like dust, Like the linty, raw-cold dust disturbed from the floor Of a disused room: a grey pale light like must That settled upon my face and hands till it seemed To flourish there, as pale mould blooms on a crust. Then I rose in fear, needing you fearfully, For I thought you were warm as a sudden jet of blood. I thought I could plunge in your spurting hotness, and be Clean of the cold and the must.--With my hand on the latch I heard you in your sleep speak strangely to me. And I dared not enter, feeling suddenly dismayed. So I went and washed my deadened flesh in the sea And came back tingling clean, but worn and frayed With cold, like the shell of the moon: and strange it seems That my love has dawned in rose again, like the love of a maid.
END OF ANOTHER HOME-HOLIDAY
I When shall I see the half moon sink again Behind the black sycamore at the end of the garden? When will the scent of the dim, white phlox Creep up the wall to me, and in at my open window? Why is it, the long slow stroke of the midnight bell, (Will it never finish the twelve?) Falls again and again on my heart with a heavy reproach? The moon-mist is over the village, out of the mist speaks the bell, And all the little roofs of the village bow low, pitiful, beseeching, resigned: Oh, little home, what is it I have not done well? Ah home, suddenly I love you, As I hear the sharp clean trot of a pony down the road, Succeeding sharp little sounds dropping into the silence, Clear upon the long-drawn hoarseness of a train across the valley. The light has gone out from under my mother's door. That she should love me so, She, so lonely, greying now, And I leaving her, Bent on my pursuits! Love is the great Asker, The sun and the rain do not ask the secret Of the time when the grain struggles down in the dark. The moon walks her lonely way without anguish, Because no loved one grieves over her departure. II Forever, ever by my shoulder pitiful Love will linger, Crouching as little houses crouch under the mist when I turn. Forever, out of the mist the church lifts up her reproachful finger, Pointing my eyes in wretched defiance where love hides her face to mourn. Oh but the rain creeps down to wet the grain That struggles alone in the dark, And asking nothing, cheerfully steals back again! The moon sets forth o' nights To walk the lonely, dusky heights Serenely, with steps unswerving; Pursued by no sigh of bereavement, No tears of love unnerving Her constant tread: While ever at my side, Frail and sad, with grey bowed head, The beggar-woman, the yearning-eyed Inexorable love goes lagging. The wild young heifer, glancing distraught, With a strange new knocking of life at her side Runs seeking a loneliness. The little grain draws down the earth to hide. Nay, even the slumberous egg, as it labours under the shell, Patiently to divide, and self-divide, Asks to be hidden, and wishes nothing to tell. But when I draw the scanty cloak of silence over my eyes, Piteous Love comes peering under the hood. Touches the clasp with trembling fingers, and tries To put her ear to the painful sob of my blood, While her tears soak through to my breast, Where they burn and cauterise. III The moon lies back and reddens. In the valley, a corncrake calls Monotonously, With a piteous, unalterable plaint, that deadens My confident activity: With a hoarse, insistent request that falls Unweariedly, unweariedly, Asking something more of me, Yet more of me!
Do you remember How night after night swept level and low Overhead, at home, and had not one star, Nor one narrow gate for the moon to go Forth to her field of November. And you remember, How towards the north a red blot on the sky Burns like a blotch of anxiety Over the forges, and small flames ply Like ghosts the shadow of the ember. Those were the days When it was awful autumn to me, When only there glowed on the dark of the sky The red reflection of her agony, My beloved smelting down in the blaze Of death--my dearest Love who had borne, and was now leaving me. And I at the foot of her cross did suffer My own gethsemane. So I came to you, And twice, after great kisses, I saw The rim of the moon divinely rise And strive to detach herself from the raw Blackened edge of the skies. Strive to escape; With her whiteness revealing my sunken world Tall and loftily shadowed. But the moon Never magnolia-like unfurled Her white, her lamp-like shape. For you told me no, And bade me not to ask for the dour Communion, offering--"a better thing." So I lay on your breast for an obscure hour Feeling your fingers go Like a rhythmic breeze Over my hair, and tracing my brows, Till I knew you not from a little wind: --I wonder now if God allows Us only one moment his keys. If only then You could have unlocked the moon on the night, And I baptized myself in the light Of your love; we both have entered then the white Pure passion, and never again. I wonder if only You had taken me then, how different Life would have been: should I have spent Myself in waste, and you have bent Your pride, through being lonely?
The little river twittering in the twilight, The wan, wondering look of the pale sky, This is almost bliss. And everything shut up and gone to sleep, All the troubles and anxieties and pain Gone under the twilight. Only the twilight now, and the soft "Sh!" of the river That will last for ever. And at last I know my love for you is here, I can see it all, it is whole like the twilight, It is large, so large, I could not see it before Because of the little lights and flickers and interruptions, Troubles, anxieties and pains. You are the call and I am the answer, You are the wish, and I the fulfilment, You are the night, and I the day. What else--it is perfect enough, It is perfectly complete, You and I, What more----? Strange, how we suffer in spite of this!
I felt the lurch and halt of her heart Next my breast, where my own heart was beating; And I laughed to feel it plunge and bound, And strange in my blood-swept ears was the sound Of the words I kept repeating, Repeating with tightened arms, and the hot blood's blindfold art. Her breath flew warm against my neck, Warm as a flame in the close night air; And the sense of her clinging flesh was sweet Where her arms and my neck's blood-surge could meet. Holding her thus, did I care That the black night hid her from me, blotted out every speck? I leaned me forward to find her lips, And claim her utterly in a kiss, When the lightning flew across her face, And I saw her for the flaring space Of a second, afraid of the clips Of my arms, inert with dread, wilted in fear of my kiss. A moment, like a wavering spark, Her face lay there before my breast, Pale love lost in a snow of fear, And guarded by a glittering tear, And lips apart with dumb cries; A moment, and she was taken again in the merciful dark. I heard the thunder, and felt the rain, And my arms fell loose, and I was dumb. Almost I hated her, she was so good, Hated myself, and the place, and my blood, Which burned with rage, as I bade her come Home, away home, ere the lightning floated forth again.
SONG-DAY IN AUTUMN
When the autumn roses Are heavy with dew, Before the mist discloses The leaf's brown hue, You would, among the laughing hills Of yesterday Walk innocent in the daffodils, Coiffing up your auburn hair In a puritan fillet, a chaste white snare To catch and keep me with you there So far away. When from the autumn roses Trickles the dew, When the blue mist uncloses And the sun looks through, You from those startled hills Come away, Out of the withering daffodils; Thoughtful, and half afraid, Plaiting a heavy, auburn braid And coiling it round the wise brows of a maid Who was scared in her play. When in the autumn roses Creeps a bee, And a trembling flower encloses His ecstasy, You from your lonely walk Turn away, And leaning to me like a flower on its stalk, Wait among the beeches For your late bee who beseeches To creep through your loosened hair till he reaches, Your heart of dismay.
Slowly the moon is rising out of the ruddy haze, Divesting herself of her golden shift, and so Emerging white and exquisite; and I in amaze See in the sky before me, a woman I did not know I loved, but there she goes and her beauty hurts my heart; I follow her down the night, begging her not to depart.
A PANG OF REMINISCENCE
High and smaller goes the moon, she is small and very far from me, Wistful and candid, watching me wistfully, and I see Trembling blue in her pallor a tear that surely I have seen before, A tear which I had hoped that even hell held not again in store.
A WHITE BLOSSOM
A tiny moon as white and small as a single jasmine flower Leans all alone above my window, on night's wintry bower, Liquid as lime-tree blossom, soft as brilliant water or rain She shines, the one white love of my youth, which all sin cannot stain.
The train in running across the weald has fallen into a steadier stroke So even, it beats like silence, and sky and earth in one unbroke Embrace of darkness lie around, and crushed between them all the loose And littered lettering of leaves and hills and houses closed, and we can use The open book of landscape no more, for the covers of darkness have shut upon Its written pages, and sky and earth and all between are closed in one. And we are smothered between the darkness, we close our eyes and say "Hush!" we try To escape in sleep the terror of this immense deep darkness, and we lie Wrapped up for sleep. And then, dear God, from out of the twofold darkness, red As if from the womb the moon arises, as if the twin-walled darkness had bled In one great spasm of birth and given us this new, red moon-rise Which lies on the knees of the darkness bloody, and makes us hide our eyes. The train beats frantic in haste, and struggles away From this ruddy terror of birth that has slid down From out of the loins of night to flame our way With fear; but God, I am glad, so glad that I drown My terror with joy of confirmation, for now Lies God all red before me, and I am glad, As the Magi were when they saw the rosy brow Of the Infant bless their constant folly which had Brought them thither to God: for now I know That the Womb is a great red passion whence rises all The shapeliness that decks us here-below: Yea like the fire that boils within this ball Of earth, and quickens all herself with flowers, God burns within the stiffened clay of us; And every flash of thought that we and ours Send up to heaven, and every movement, does Fly like a spark from this God-fire of passion; And pain of birth, and joy of the begetting, And sweat of labour, and the meanest fashion Of fretting or of gladness, but the jetting Of a trail of the great fire against the sky Where we can see it, a jet from the innermost fire: And even in the watery shells that lie Alive within the cozy under-mire, A grain of this same fire I can descry. And then within the screaming birds that fly Across the lightning when the storm leaps higher; And then the swirling, flaming folk that try To come like fire-flames at their fierce desire, They are as earth's dread, spurting flames that ply Awhile and gush forth death and then expire. And though it be love's wet blue eyes that cry To hot love to relinquish its desire, Still in their depths I see the same red spark As rose to-night upon us from the dark.
Now I am come again, you who have so desired My coming, why do you look away from me? Why does your cheek burn against me--have I inspired Such anger as sets your mouth unwontedly? Ah, here I sit while you break the music beneath Your bow; for broken it is, and hurting to hear: Cease then from music--does anguish of absence bequeath Me only aloofness when I would draw near?
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!
The last, silk-floating thought has gone from the dandelion stem, And the flesh of the stalk holds up for nothing a blank diadem. The night's flood-winds have lifted my last desire from me, And my hollow flesh stands up in the night abandonedly. As I stand on this hill, with the whitening cave of the city beyond, Helen, I am despoiled of my pride, and my soul turns fond: Overhead the nightly heavens like an open, immense eye, Like a cat's distended pupil sparkles with sudden stars, As with thoughts that flash and crackle in uncouth malignancy They glitter at me, and I fear the fierce snapping of night's thought-stars. Beyond me, up the darkness, goes the gush of the lights of two towns, As the breath which rushes upwards from the nostrils of an immense Life crouched across the globe, ready, if need be, to pounce Across the space upon heaven's high hostile eminence. All round me, but far away, the night's twin consciousness roars With sounds that endlessly swell and sink like the storm of thought in the brain, Lifting and falling like slow breaths taken, pulsing like oars Immense that beat the blood of the night down its vein. The night is immense and awful, Helen, and I am insect small In the fur of this hill, clung on to the fur of shaggy, black heather. A palpitant speck in the fur of the night, and afraid of all, Seeing the world and the sky like creatures hostile together. And I in the fur of the world, and you a pale fleck from the sky, How we hate each other to-night, hate, you and I, As the world of activity hates the dream that goes on on high, As a man hates the dreaming woman he loves, but who will not reply.
Is that the moon At the window so big and red? No one in the room, No one near the bed----? Listen, her shoon Palpitating down the stair? --Or a beat of wings at the window there? A moment ago She kissed me warm on the mouth, The very moon in the south Is warm with a bloody glow, The moon from far abysses Signalling those two kisses. And now the moon Goes slowly out of the west, And slowly back in my breast My kisses are sinking, soon To leave me at rest.
The trees rise tall and taller, lifted On a subtle rush of cool grey flame That issuing out of the dawn has sifted The spirit from each leaf's frame. For the trailing, leisurely rapture of life Drifts dimly forward, easily hidden By bright leaves uttered aloud, and strife Of shapes in the grey mist chidden. The grey, phosphorescent, pellucid advance Of the luminous purpose of God, shines out Where the lofty trees athwart stream chance To shake flakes of its shadow about. The subtle, steady rush of the whole Grey foam-mist of advancing God, As He silently sweeps to His somewhere, his goal, Is heard in the grass of the sod. Is heard in the windless whisper of leaves In the silent labours of men in the fields, In the downward dropping of flimsy sheaves Of cloud the rain skies yield. In the tapping haste of a fallen leaf, In the flapping of red-roof smoke, and the small Foot-stepping tap of men beneath These trees so huge and tall. For what can all sharp-rimmed substance but catch In a backward ripple, God's purpose, reveal For a moment His mighty direction, snatch A spark beneath His wheel. Since God sweeps onward dim and vast, Creating the channelled vein of Man And Leaf for His passage, His shadow is cast On all for us to scan. Ah listen, for Silence is not lonely: Imitate the magnificent trees That speak no word of their rapture, but only Breathe largely the luminous breeze.
A gang of labourers on the piled wet timber That shines blood-red beside the railway siding Seem to be making out of the blue of the morning Something faery and fine, the shuttles sliding, The red-gold spools of their hands and faces shuttling Hither and thither across the morn's crystalline frame Of blue: trolls at the cave of ringing cerulean mining, And laughing with work, living their work like a game.
I =The Town= Oh you stiff shapes, swift transformation seethes About you: only last night you were A Sodom smouldering in the dense, soiled air; To-day a thicket of sunshine with blue smoke-wreaths. To-morrow swimming in evening's vague, dim vapour Like a weeded city in shadow under the sea, Beneath an ocean of shimmering light you will be: Then a group of toadstools waiting the moon's white taper. And when I awake in the morning, after rain, To find the new houses a cluster of lilies glittering In scarlet, alive with the birds' bright twittering, I'll say your bond of ugliness is vain. II =The Earth= Oh Earth, you spinning clod of earth, And then you lamp, you lemon-coloured beauty; Oh Earth, you rotten apple rolling downward, Then brilliant Earth, from the burr of night in beauty As a jewel-brown horse-chestnut newly issued:-- You are all these, and strange, it is my duty To take you all, sordid or radiant tissued. III =Men= Oh labourers, oh shuttles across the blue frame of morning, You feet of the rainbow balancing the sky! Oh you who flash your arms like rockets to heaven, Who in lassitude lean as yachts on the sea-wind lie! You who in crowds are rhododendrons in blossom, Who stand alone in pride like lighted lamps; Who grappling down with work or hate or passion, Take strange lithe form of a beast that sweats and ramps: You who are twisted in grief like crumpled beech-leaves, Who curl in sleep like kittens, who kiss as a swarm Of clustered, vibrating bees; who fall to earth At last like a bean-pod: what are you, oh multiform?
We have bit no forbidden apple, Eve and I, Yet the splashes of day and night Falling round us no longer dapple The same Eden with purple and white. This is our own still valley Our Eden, our home, But day shows it vivid with feeling And the pallor of night does not tally With dark sleep that once covered its ceiling. My little red heifer, to-night I looked in her eyes, --She will calve to-morrow: Last night when I went with the lantern, the sow was grabbing her litter With red, snarling jaws: and I heard the cries Of the new-born, and after that, the old owl, then the bats that flitter. And I woke to the sound of the wood-pigeons, and lay and listened, Till I could borrow A few quick beats of a wood-pigeon's heart, and when I did rise The morning sun on the shaken iris glistened, And I saw that home, this valley, was wider than Paradise. I learned it all from my Eve This warm, dumb wisdom. She's a finer instructress than years; She has taught my heart-strings to weave Through the web of all laughter and tears. And now I see the valley Fleshed all like me With feelings that change and quiver: And all things seem to tally With something in me, Something of which she's the giver.
If she would come to me here, Now the sunken swaths Are glittering paths To the sun, and the swallows cut clear Into the low sun--if she came to me here! If she would come to me now, Before the last mown harebells are dead, While that vetch clump yet burns red; Before all the bats have dropped from the bough Into the cool of night--if she came to me now! The horses are untackled, the chattering machine Is still at last. If she would come, I would gather up the warm hay from The hill-brow, and lie in her lap till the green Sky ceased to quiver, and lost its tired sheen. I should like to drop On the hay, with my head on her knee And lie stone still, while she Breathed quiet above me--we could stop Till the stars came out to see. I should like to lie still As if I was dead--but feeling Her hand go stealing Over my face and my hair until This ache was shed.
God shook thy roundness in His finger's cup, He sunk His hands in firmness down thy sides, And drew the circle of His grasp, O Man, Along thy limbs delighted, thine, His bride's. And so thou wert God-shapen: His finger Curved thy mouth for thee, and His strong shoulder Planted thee upright: art not proud to see In the curve of thine exquisite form the joy of the Moulder? He took a handful of light and rolled a ball, Compressed it till its beam grew wondrous dark, Then gave thee thy dark eyes, O Man, that all He made had doorway to thee through that spark. God, lonely, put down His mouth in a kiss of creation, He kissed thee, O Man, in a passion of love, and left The vivid life of His love in thy mouth and thy nostrils; Keep then the kiss from the adultress' theft.
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