Still From The Fount Of

Eternity Forbids Thee To Forget.

My Beautiful, My Own My Only Venice-this Is Breath! Thy Breeze Thine Adrian Sea-breeze, How It Fans My Face! Thy Very Winds Feel Native To My Veins, And Cool Them Into Calmness!

Oh! Might I Kiss Those Eyes Of Fire, A Million Scarce Would Quench Desire; Still Would I Steep My Lips In Bliss, And Dwell An Age On Every Kiss; Nor Then My Soul Should Sated Be, Still Would I Kiss And Cling To Thee: Nought Should My Kiss From Thine Dissever, Still Would We Kiss And Kiss For Ever; E'en Though The Numbers Did Exceed The Yellow Harvest's Countless Seed; To Part Would Be A Vain Endeavour: Could I Desist? -ah! Never-never.

For Through The South The Custom Still Commands The Gentleman To Kiss The Lady's Hands.

What Exile From Himself Can Flee? To Zones, Though More And More Remote, Still, Still Pursues, Where'er I Be, The Blight Of Life--the Demon Thought.