In a harbor of laid-back pose,
To what dinghy, clipper, or yacht
Does she imagine offering
Today her studious welcome?
As though both life and love,
Locked within each other,
Need always to be tasted
And thereby translated—
Such an entrance and its gate
Must remain denied
To those who, without
The other, merely pass by,
Insensible
To those true reveries
And the gripping thoughts
Her smile and glance may drop—
Such as that her tongue's ruddy tip
Is but the rim—her flame's last rhyme—
Just as the wine-red of ripened grapes
Finds its serene reply in her body's sublime white.
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