Benedictine

The Benedictine scents and stains the languor of your pallid lips; My kiss shall be a bee that sips A fainting roseleaf flushed with rains. I thirst, and yet my thirst increases With draining deep and deeper kisses; The odour of your breath releases Desires that dream of deeper blisses. And on my lips your lips now pressed Cling moist and close; your lips begin Devouringly to gather in Your kisses that my lips possessed. The odour of your breath releases Wafts of intoxicating blisses; Yet still my thirst of you increases, I think beneath your thirsty kisses. No kisses more, this perilous day, Or tempting, tempt me not in vain: This day I dare not taste again Your lips that suck my soul away!