THE keeper of the kisses sleeps—
No sigh of mine can wake her;
In slumber all my joy she keeps—
My eyes will not forsake her!
All night I wait and watch her rest,
And yearn for those deep blisses,
Which are withheld from those unblest,
By her who keeps the kisses.
Oh, keeper of the kisses, rise
And now, at morn, uprender
The key which locks your lips and eyes,
And give me kisses tender.
The birds are waiting, and the flowers—
All spring your kisses needing;
The burning stars, the fainting hours,
The earth for joy is pleading.
See, her soft couch is moss and blooms,
All sweet with perfumes blowing;
And lover like myself assumes,
The flowers for her are growing.
Now if she wake with rosy dawn,
When all the east be singing,
Will every nightingale be drawn
To her with bluebells ringing?
She sleeps, and knows not how we yearn,
For bliss she only grants us;
For her the sun and sky doth burn!
The lark is up, and chants thus:
“Oh, keeper of the kisses, wake!
Unlock your lips by smiling,
And let adoring mortals take
The joys of your beguiling.
“For what is love without your lips?
A life that is not merry.
The bee that every honey sips,
Prefers the dimpled cherry.”