Les Mouches Fantastiques (amateur journal)/April 1918/Kisses
Kisses
The amber sunset is low in the sloping sky;
It tints with warm colors the gleaming sides of the marble bath,
And the body and round moulded limbs of the woman
She, wet with the water and dripping, reclines on the jutting edge.
Her faded hair has fallen about her shoulders,
Has fallen and hidden her pondulous breasts.
She is white as doves that fly in a garden of roses,
And her feet which she dries with a towel of silk,
A towel of silk that is yellow,
Are like pearls from an oyster decaying, and thrown in the seaweed on sands by a sea.
She has lain in the arms of a lover until her limbs are weary of passion,
With mouth upon mouth, limb against limn she has felt,
And the day has gone down to its death in the clouds
As her moment has died of itself.
She has washed the stairs from her limbs
With the water that doves have bathed in,
And her body is white as their white throats.
She is wearied of love and its passion,
For sweets that are sweet lose their sweetness too soon,
And her mouth is tired of carresses, as her body is wearied of touch.
The winds that come over fields of green grasses,
And are sweet with the pepper trees' smell
Have come to take odors from gardens of roses as gifts for the dying day,
And the woman whom love as a woman has kissed with hot moist mouth,
Is charmed by the gift-bearers,
And cooled by their touch,
And her blue eyes are filled
With pale tears.
Roswell George Mills.