His art was loving; Eres set his sign...

His art was loving; Eres set his sign

Upon that youthful forehead, and he drew

The hearts of women, as the sun draws dew.

Love feeds love's thirst as wine feeds love of wine;

Nor is there any potion from the vine

Which makes men drunken like the subtle brew

Of kisses crushed by kisses; and he grew

Inebriated with that draught divine.

Yet in his sober moments, when the sun

Of radiant summer paled to lonely fall,

And passion's sea had grown an ebbing tide,

From out the many, Memory singled one

Full cup that seemed the sweetest of them all -

The warm red mouth that mocked him and denied.