The Appeal

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!

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